


Like Lightning

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bedtime Stories, Biblical References, Breathplay, Cock Cages, Community: fan_flashworks, Crack, F/F, Ficlet Collection, First Time, Flogging, Fluff, Gen, Guro, M/M, Masturbation, Nun Sherlock, Omegaverse, Omegaverse ficcer John, POV Inanimate Object, Poetry, Puns & Word Play, Sharing a Bed, Vampire Sherlock, Werewolves, Window washer John, Writing on the Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:08:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 22,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poetry and prose written in the BBC Sherlock 'verse for prompts in the LJ <a href="http://fan-flashworks.livejournal.com/">fan_flashworks</a> community. Very much a mixed bag of AUs. All chapters stand alone. Ratings & warnings vary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Metal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Metal  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content notes:** Alternate Universe; Sherlock/John  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock is an alchemist.

He was close, so close that he could almost taste the gold. All the elements were there. The fire was burning hot beneath the glass flask. The water was pure and clear; he had collected it himself from the highest mountain top in the land. The earth, the rock, that is, he had also collected, quarried with his own hands. The air was his own breath.  
He slowly added the elixir and waited for the dark rock to transform. To transmute. To change into treasure.

Nothing.

He screamed and hurled the flask at the wall. And like the flask, he shattered and fell to the floor, his hands covering his head.

He was a natural philosopher. A seeker of truth. A dispeller of darkness. A riddle solver. He would know what others did not know.

He knew nothing.

There was light.

He screamed.

“Hello there?”

His eyes struggled to focus. There was a figure, standing in the doorway. With the bright sun behind him, he looked like a statue. A golden statue that moved and spoke his name.

“Sherlock? Sherlock the Alchemist? I’m here to assist you.”

“I don’t need an apprentice!” he growled.

“Good. Because I have no interest in learning your trade.”

“Then why…? Oh, my brother sent you to spy on me! And once I’ve discovered the Philosopher’s Stone, you will connive with him to snatch it from me and line your own purses! Go away!”

“Your brother did send me. He paid me a week’s wage, and I took it because that is bread to me. Here,” he extended his hand, “is half. I will tell him only what you bid me.”

“Why should I take his filthy lucre?”

“You are after gold, aren’t you? Here it is, in my palm.”

“I am after truth!” he roared. “I am a seeker of truth, a dispeller of darkness—“

“Really? How about this then?” The curtain was torn back; light flooded the room.

He screamed for a third time.

“You are not half as old as your bleating. You need fresh air and more than a bit of sustenance and some order to this place.”

“I don’t need a maid! Or a wife!”

“How about a scribe? I can read and write. You do your work, I record it. For you—and for others, perhaps for many generations to come—to learn.”

He stroked his beard. Impossible to deny that there was a fleck of wisdom in the stranger’s hubris.

“One week and if I give no satisfaction, I leave.”

“What is your name?” he asked sharply.

“John.”

By week’s end, he had abandoned his quest for gold, and set off to find truth, his treasure by his side.


	2. Laryngitis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Laryngitis  
>  **Prompt:** Voice  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Crack; humour; Alternate Universe; Sherlock  & John; using only correspondence (i.e., texts)  
>  **Summary:** The orange marmalade is tart.

** Just tea for me. Thanks. SH **

** Why are you texting me from your bedroom?? JW **

** I lost my voice. SH **

** Laryngitis? Not surprised. What was the point of screaming into a gramophone horn all night?? JW **

** Phonograph horn. Experiment. SH **

** Experiment in what?? JW **

** Sound vibration waveforms transformed into physical deviations on gelatinous surfaces and the recording and recreation of said waveforms. SH **

** Fascinating. Successful? JW **

** Very. SH **

** Toast? JW **

** No. SH **

** When did you last eat?? I’m making you toast! JW **

** Why do we have twelve kinds of jam?? JW **

** Thirteen. Mrs. Hudson. Epiphany tarts. Church bazaar. South Beach diet. SH **

** John! As a conductor of light you are unbeatable! SH **

** John? SH **

** THE ORANGE MARMALADE JUST CALLED ME AN IDIOT!!! JW **


	3. Breathpray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Breathpray  
>  **Prompt:** Voice  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content notes:** Three linked Jue Ju; written with Sherlock/John in mind but no direct references  
>  **Warnings:** Breathplay and heavy and blasphemous use of Christian terms and imagery.

Waxen candles, blessing of Blaise  
Head unbowed, the supplicant prays  
Pressing, ‘rresting, finger and thumb  
Din, infernal tumult, chaos undone.

Murmured, “Danger, thine becomes mine.”  
Benediction. Words that doth bind.  
Voiceless reply begs for release.  
Grip denies, the devilish beast!

Shadows fall. The curtain descends.  
Penitent and priest say “Amen.”  
Call and answer. Mysteries sigh.  
Holding, folding, breathless borne prize.


	4. On the Outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title & Prompt:** On the Outside  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Warnings:** Guro; Masturbation  
>  **Content Notes:** Sherlock/John (one-sided); Angst; POV 1st Person (Sherlock); reference to a scene from Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back (1980)  
>  **Summary:** I want to be inside you, John.

I see everything and delete most.  
  
You delete nothing, except that which I would have you delete, and see nothing, except that which I would have you not see.  
  
Me. In a sheet. Prick in hand. Screen stilled. Fist stilled.  
  
You cough.  
  
If you imagine me a freak, I beg to disagree. I am a thousand times more depraved than your mind can conjure. This leaking tip in my hand is that of the proverbial iceberg.  
  
I want to be inside you, John.  
  
Do you see? No, you don’t see.  
  
Not hand or prick, mine. Not mouth or arse, yours.  
  
The whole of me inside the whole of you.  
  
Sherlock Holmes inside John Watson.  
  
My fists moves.  
  
Up and down.  
  
At your insistence, I watched 374 minutes of film yesterday. I deleted 373 minutes, 30 seconds of what I saw.  
  
Thirty seconds I kept.  
  
This morning—like an addict—I searched for and found that thirty seconds.  
  
The place is called Hoth. Delete.  
  
It is a cold, barren, unforgiving world.  
  
Someone is in distress. Another comes to the rescue. There is a beast.  
  
The beast is called a Tauntaun. Delete.  
  
The rescuer cuts the beast open from head to toe, removes the entrails, and places the one in distress inside the beast.  
  
He says, “It will keep you warm.”  
  
He says, “I though they smelled bad on the outside!” Delete.  
  
You are the beast. I am the rescuer and the one in distress.  
  
Do you see now?  
  
Up and down.  
  
Sherlock Holmes inside John Watson.  
  
I cut you from head to toe, remove your entrails, and crawl inside you.   
  
It will keep me warm.  
  
It will keep the cold, barren, unforgiving world on the outside.  
  
I cut you open, remove your entrails, crawl inside you, and sew the flaps of your skin closed.  
  
Like an autopsy.  
  
No!  
  
My fist stops. I whimper.  
  
You are not the beast.  
  
I cut you open, remove your entrails, crawl inside you, draw your skin closed, and go to work.  
  
Filtering your air. Digesting your food. Pumping your blood.  
  
Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub.  
  
My fist pumps.  
  
I would gladly trade this transport to be part of yours.  
  
Surrounded.  
  
Protected.  
  
Inside.  
  
John Watson.  
  
I clean myself and dress.  
  
Will my humiliation be protracted or swift? Profound or superficial?  
  
“It’s all fine,” you say, chuckling. I deliberate on the exact pattern of vocal chord vibration that produces the soft, warm, sugar-coated sound. “Han Solo and Luke Skywalker? Utterly wankable.”  
  
It is not all fine, John.  
  
It is not all fine because I cannot delete what you do not see:  
  
I am on the outside.


	5. Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Fluff  
>  **Prompt:** Gift  
>  **Rating:** Teen   
> **Content Notes:** Crack, humour, AU-Different First Meeting, all dialogue, Sherlock  & John  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock’s a porn star with a problem. John’s a fluffer with a gift.

“Action!”  
“No, wait. I’m not ready.”  
“Cut!”  
“Sherlock…”  
“I need a minute!”  
“I gave you two. Listen, Sherlock, the studio is ready to cut you loose. They will lose a lot of money if A Study in Harlots doesn’t get made. You have a problem.”  
“I need an assistant!”  
“Anderson…”  
“Won’t work with me. Plus, he lowers the libido of the whole set when he talks out loud. Ask Stanford.”  
“The studio doc? Oh, all right.”  
\---  
“Lestrade.”  
“Stanford. I’ve got a temperamental star with a maintenance issue. What’s so funny?”  
“Well, you’re the second director to say that to me today.”  
\---  
“John Watson.”  
“Sherlock Holmes. How is my brother?”  
“How did you—?”  
“You reek of Earl Grey-flavoured lubricant. I looked you up on the internet just now. In Los Angeles, they call you ‘Doctor Marvin Gaye.’ Any good?”  
“Very good. I figure out what’s going on and help chaps who gotta keep it up to get it on. So why don’t you go to Work, I’ll take notes, and we’ll find some…”  
“Sexual healing.”  
\---  
“Stamford, I owe you. That fluffer fellow may be the making of Shercock Bones. In just one day…”  
“Cut!”  
“JOHN!”  
“Great job, Sherlock.”  
“What happens next, John?!”  
“Well, we’re cuddling by the fire, the rain is pouring outside.”  
“Do we have blankets, John? Are there blankets?!”  
“We’ve made a blanket fort, Sherlock.”  
“Oh, God, a blanket fort! Tea?”  
“Cocoa.”  
“COCOA!”  
“So we’re cuddling in front of the fire, with our blanket fort and our cocoa. And then there’s a noise at the door.”  
“Oh, God. What’s at the door, John?”  
“A basket.”  
“What’s in the basket, John? What’s in the basket?!”  
“Places everybody! Okay! Lights, camera…”  
“A calico kitten.”  
“OH, GOD!”  
“Action!”


	6. Many Hands Make Light Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Many Hands Make Light Work   
> **Prompt:** Hand  
>  **Rating:** Gen (no slash)  
>  **Content Notes:** The end of the Biblical parable of the prodigal son re-told as a post-Reichenbach Holmes family reunion; Mr.  & Mrs. Holmes, Sherlock, Mycroft.  
>  **Author’s Note:** The idea for this story came from the February 27, 2016 entry in _The Little Black Book: Six-minute reflections on the Weekday Gospels of Lent._

“Yes, that’s right. The choicest leg you have. I’ll be around to pick it up. Yes, it’s a celebration: my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found!”

He clicked off the phone.

“My dear, Sherlock is returned! Pick some mint from the garden, and we’ll have fresh sauce with the lamb. And those nice potatoes! And, of course, no feast would be complete without my famous cherries jubilee. Let’s see how much of the good brandy is left. Oh, we will be merry tonight!”

He glanced out the window. 

“There he is now, coming up the walk.”

He flew out the door.

“Sherlock! Oh, my son!”

“Hello, father. Can I be called your son after all that I have seen and done these past three years?”

“Of course, you’re still a Holmes!” He looked up at the sky with his hands raised. “Oh, my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found!”

“I have squandered your inheritance: your good will, your faith in others, your trust in Providence. Am I found? I still feel lost.”

“What piffle you talk! You’re as thin as a rake! Well, we’re going to see to that right away. I’ve a feast planned. Mycroft! What are you doing skulking there? Come! The Holmes family is going to dine splendidly: leg of lamb with fresh mint sauce, those nice potatoes, let’s see, some spring cabbage, and my cherries jubilee!”

“It does sound delightful, father. I have not been lost for three years. I’ve been right here, and I don’t believe you prepared so much as a bowl of grisly mutton stew for me, but, of course, you kill the proverbial fatted calf for Sherlock.” 

“Oh, Mycroft, don’t grumble! All that I have is yours. But your brother was dead and is alive again!”

“Yes, I heard you; the entire street heard you, father.”

“Now, Mycroft…”

“Boys!”

The three turned toward the door.

“Mummy!”

“Oh, Sherlock! You’re thin as a rake!” 

She held out her arms, and he went to her.

“Now, listen, Father, you dote on Sherlock. You always have. You need to start appreciating Mycroft more and all that he does for you and for this family, Sherlock, in particular.” 

She turned her pointing finger to Mycroft.

“And you need to stop acting like a martyr and thinking you’re the only one who makes sacrifices around here. We all do. Put on your big boy trousers and stop pouting!”

“And you,” she turned to Sherlock, “are spoilt. You need to thank Mycroft, and properly, for the pains he took to keep you alive and safe while you were on your mission. Pull that beautiful head out of those lovely buttocks and see that you are not the centre of the universe.”

“And the three of you need to come in and get to work. Feasts don’t just happen. I need every Holmes hand in the kitchen.”

“But wait,” protested Sherlock, “I was dead, and am alive again. Shouldn’t you be bringing forth the best robe and putting a ring on my hand?”

She hooked an aubergine-coloured garment over his head and tied it around his waist. “How about an apron? You always look so regal in purple. Welcome home, my prince.”


	7. One Night Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title & Prompt:** One Night Only  
>  **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Content Notes:** Cock cage/chastity device; biting; reference to drug use; hurt/comfort; angst; jealous  & possessive Sherlock; enabling John; POV Sherlock; handjob; oral sex; rough sex  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock’s jealousy leads to demonstrations and revelations for him and John.  
>  **Author’s Note:** John’s device inspired by mh-design’s [Lancelot](http://www.edelstahl-kg.de/).

“Would you like me to leave so that you can shoot up?”  
  
Sherlock blinked.  
  
“I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid, Sherlock. You’ve looked twice at that floorboard where you hide your kit. And you were off tonight.”  
  
“I solved the case!”  
  
John stood. “If being more than flatmates is interfering with the Work—“  
  
Sherlock’s throat tightened around unspoken words.  
  
Don’t go. Please don’t go.  
  
“Anderson.”  
  
John stopped at the door and turned, one eyebrow raised.  
  
“You like his beard.”  
  
“I made a joke about his beard. To his face.”  
  
“But you like it.”  
  
John shrugged. “Yeah, it flatters him.”  
  
Sherlock inhaled and exhaled.  
  
“Wait, you’re jealous of Anderson?!”  
  
John laughed. Sherlock winced.  
  
“Christ, you are! If you think that I am interested in Anderson, _you_ are the stupid one, Sherlock!”  
  
“I KNOW!” The window panes rattled. “IT’S ILLOGICAL, IT’S IRRATIONAL, IT’S RIDICULOUS, AND IT’S BLOODY DISTRACTING!”  
He buried his face in his hands. “I couldn’t stop thinking of you—“  
  
“What? Heading off to gent’s for a quick handjob?”  
  
Sherlock looked up. “Blowjob, but, yes.”  
  
John knelt and took Sherlock’s hands in his. “I am with you. I want to be with you and no one else.”  
  
“It isn’t anything that you’ve done. And it isn’t just Anderson. I imagine you with Lestrade, Donovan, every Yarder at the scene. Even the corpse!”  
  
John snorted, then his face fell. “Sorry,” he mumbled.  
  
“I can’t think! Who am I, John, if I can’t think?!”  
  
John frowned.  
  
Sherlock stood abruptly. He stumbled around John and fled down the hall and slammed the bedroom door.  
  


* * *

  
_Knock, knock._  
  
“Go away, John.”  
  
“I’m not going anywhere.”   
  
Sherlock opened the door.  
  
“You should. Leave tonight. I’ll forward your things…”  
  
“Sherlock, talk to me!”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Desdemona?” asked John.  
  
Sherlock shuddered.  
  
John’s voice turned hard. “Never forget that I was a soldier, Sherlock. I’m not going to let you smother me in a jealous rage without a fight.”  
  
“I don’t want to kill you.”  
  
“No? Then what?”  
  
Why not tell him? He’ll leave anyway, sooner or later.  
  
“Brand you. Mark you. Cage you. Leash you. There! Are you happy? You know how depraved I am. How utter illogical my mind is!” Sherlock turned away. His voice faltered. “Go. Just go, John.”   
  
Silence.  
  
“Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock turned.  
  
_WHAM!_  
  
He fell back, holding his face. Pain quickly displaced shock.  
  
“You think I am just going to _let_ you be my commanding officer?” John’s eyes darkened, and he advanced on Sherlock with a twitch of a smile on his lips. “Come on, you want to be the boss of me? You had better show me that you can do more than just pine and bite that pretty lip of yours. Am I yours, Sherlock? Make me yours.”  
  
Sherlock had stared dumbly and staggered backwards as John punctuated each statement with a hard shove.  
  
Until the last word. Yours.  
  
“MINE!”  
  
They clashed. Sherlock was bigger, smarter, but John was stronger, with better instincts.  
  
John got Sherlock in a choke-hold. Then Sherlock threw him to the floor and pounced.  
  
John rolled away just in time and leapt to his feet. “Am I yours?” he taunted.  
  
Sherlock growled. Then he sprang, launching his entire body at John, sending them both sprawling on the bed. Then Sherlock straddled John’s waist and pinned his arms.  
  
“Mine!” cried Sherlock.  
  
Both were panting.   
  
“Make me!” countered John, still struggling to throw Sherlock off.  
  
Then Sherlock’s mouth was on John’s. It was brutal. Hard, wet, sloppy. Too much teeth. More bite and breath than kiss.  
  
Sherlock released one of John’s hands and cupped John’s cock through his jeans. “Mine.” He began to rub, feeling John harden at the touch.  
  
John’s fingers threaded in Sherlock’s hair and yanked. “Not yours yet.” The pleasure-pain blinded Sherlock for a moment, the very moment John needed to escape.  
  
_WHAM!_  
  
Sherlock slammed John into the wall.  
  
John grunted.  
  
Sherlock pressed his full length against John. He licked a stripe down John’s neck and then bit.  
  
John gave a high-pitched cry.  
  
“Mine?” It was a hoarse whisper.  
  
John grunted again. Sherlock pulled back so that he could snake his hands between John and the wall and undo John’s belt. When John’s cock was free, Sherlock spit in his own hand.  
  
“No time,” he said by way of apology. Sherlock’s saliva and John’s pre-come were barely enough. It was a rough fist-fuck, but soon John was decorating the wall with streaks of come.  
  
Sherlock stared at the smears and listened to John’s loud breathing. He licked along the slope of John’s neck.  
  
And bit again.  
  
“MINE!”  
  
John howled.  
  


* * *

  
When John’s breathing had quieted, he tilted his head back and said softly, “Yours.” Then he turned.  
  
Sherlock studied the dishevelled clothing and hair; the visible marks and the bruises yet to form. He began to tremble.  
  
Monster.  
  
He looked about them, taking in the room, normally pin-neat, now in complete disarray.  
  
MONSTER!  
  
The trembling grew to full-body heaving.  
  
“I should be chemically castrated…”  
  
“No, Sherlock.”  
  
“…lobotomised…”  
  
“No.”  
  
John put a hand on either side of Sherlock’s head as if to still the angry swarming thoughts inside and kissed his lips.  
Sherlock closed his eyes, and when he opened them, his vision was blurry.  
  
“You’ve marked me, Sherlock. I’m yours.”  
  
Sherlock looked down and instantly fell to his knees, hugging John’s legs, nuzzling the come-streaked mess of limp cock, belt, jeans and pants that  
was bunched at John’s crotch.   
  
“And if that’s not enough,” continued John, stroking Sherlock’s hair. “We’ll figure something else out.”  
  


* * *

  
_BANG! BANG!_  
  
“Come on, John! Case!”  
  
The door opened.  
  
Extraordinary. John was extraordinary.  
  
Very little surprised Sherlock, but a steel mesh sock with padlock covering John’s cock? He wasn’t expecting that.  
  
John pressed a small piece of metal into his hand.  
  
“One night only.”  
  
A key.  
  
Sherlock had the key to John’s cock.  
  
Extraordinary.  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock leapt from the taxi before it had come to a complete stop in front of 221 Baker Street. He watched John throw some bills at the driver and hurry after him.  
  
The front door had barely closed before John was giggling. “It worked, didn’t it?”  
  
They were still standing in the entranceway, both grinning madly. Sherlock stepped forward and John stepped back until John’s back was against the door.  
  
“I was on fire, John!”  
  
“Yeah, I know you hate repeating, but I am going to say it again anyway: you were _magnificent_.”  
  
Sherlock cupped John’s jaw with two hands and leaned in for a long, languid kiss, meant to tell John over and over, with every brush of lips and tongue, how indispensable he was to Sherlock, how much Sherlock cherished him, how grateful Sherlock was to have him in his life.  
  
How there was no Sherlock Holmes without John Watson.  
  
Sherlock broke the kiss, but kept his mouth a whisper’s distance from John’s.  
  
“God,” John groaned, letting his head thud against the door. His chest rose and fell as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist.  
  
Sherlock felt the hard protuberance through John’s trousers and was suddenly shy.  
  
“May I unlock it?” he said quietly.  
  
John smiled. “Not may, must. You’ve got the key.”  
  


* * *

John sat in his armchair, clad in only a dressing gown. Sherlock was on the floor between his legs.  
  
  
“Medieval-looking thing, no?” said John.  
  
“Indeed. Striking visual.”  
  
“You got half-hard twice tonight.“  
  
“Four times," said Sherlock. "To the untrained eye, there was nothing different about you, but there is nothing untrained about my eye, John, especially when it comes to you. I saw it in the way you held yourself, how you stood and walked and turned, how the fabric of your trousers lay. But mostly, it was the key. Every time jealous thoughts intruded, I rubbed it and remembered.”  
  
“I’m yours.”  
  
“Yes. The thoughts retreated, and I could concentrate. It was…”  
  
“Amazing.”    
  
“So are you, John. It bears repeating:  _so are you_.”  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock exhaled loudly when the key clicked in the lock. John carefully removed the device and set it on the floor.  
  
Sherlock did not take his eyes from John’s cock. “John…”  
  
“Yeah,” said John, rubbing his fingers around the base. “It could use a little love, my poor jail bird.”  
  
Love.  
  
Sherlock realised that he loved John’s cock, just as he loved the rest of John. And amazingly, John loved him, and John had demonstrated his love in an extraordinary, though highly unorthodox, way.  
  
One demonstration deserved another.  
  
“Let me.”  
  
Sherlock’s fingers took over for John’s, gently massaging the base of John’s cock, where rings had held the device in place. Then he bent his head and licked, recognising the new, metallic note to John’s scent and the flavour of his skin and recalling the familiar texture of his coarse pubic hair.  
  
“Sherlock.” John’s hands were buried in Sherlock’s hair. He sank further into the armchair and lifted his hips in invitation.  
  
Sherlock licked slowly up John’s shaft, noting the swelling and increased heat as his mouth moved from base to head. He committed to memory the tight smoothness of John’s skin and a map of the ridges and vessels just beneath that skin and the hoarse whisper that escaped John’s lips when Sherlock took the head in his mouth and sucked.  
  
“Christ, Sherlock!”  
  
Sherlock’s mouth never left John, though he fondled John’s sacs in his hand and teased John’s frenulum with his fingers. He licked up and down. He sucked greedily, caressing John with his tongue, taking more and more of him.  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock, love!”  
  
Sherlock hummed. There it was again:  John loved Sherlock.  
  
John groaned. His body tensed, and he made to pull out of Sherlock’s mouth.  
  
“Sherlock, I’m…”  
  
Sherlock grunted in protest and gripped John’s thighs tighter; muscles quivered beneath Sherlock’s fingers as John fought to hold himself in check.  
Sherlock made an impatient noise. Then he pulled off John’s cock entirely and kissed the shaft, murmuring, “John, let me, let me, please.” He nuzzled the crease of John’s thigh and licked. “Please.”  
  
John put his cock in a cage and gave Sherlock the key. This cock. This gorgeous, gorgeous…  
  
“Christ, the way you look at me sometimes, Sherlock.”  
  
“Let me, John.”  
  
John answered by spreading his knees.  
  
Sherlock sighed and swallowed John’s cock as far as his oral cavity would allow, and later, Sherlock would not be able to recall any substance, not one in all that he had smoked, swallowed, or injected in his lifetime—that could produce anything remotely resembling the bliss he felt at the sound of John chanting “Yours, yours, yours,” as he shot streams of come down Sherlock’s throat.  
  


* * *

  
John stood.  
  
Sherlock cringed silently at the panic that gripped him.  
  
“I just really need to go to the, ah…”  
  
Sherlock nodded and dropped his gaze, studying the cage, which was half hidden beneath the armchair. He listened as John walked down the hall, opened the door, urinated, flushed, and washed his hands. Then John stopped.  
  
He was looking in the mirror. No, he was thinking. Re-thinking. Regretting.  
  
A second panic hit Sherlock. He slipped his hand in his trouser pocket and touched the tiny sliver of metal.  
  
Mine.  
  
The panic had just begun to loosen its grip when Sherlock felt a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Sherlock.” John sat down again. “Uh, about…”  
  
“I know, John. One night only. But I want to keep the key. It helps. Even without…” He gestured to the steel device.  
  
“Uh, sure, I mean, great. But that’s not what I wanted to say. Um, this.” He pulled the collar of the dressing gown aside to reveal a mottled bruise on the ridge of his shoulder. “I like this. Probably more than I should. Probably more than is right. Maybe, I know it’s just transport, but if you wanted to, uh…” He looked toward the hall as his voice died.   
  
Oh, John.  
  
Sherlock _was_ the stupid one! He’d been so blind. Blind and selfish. That’s what jealousy did, didn’t it? Othello. Desdemona.  
  
“I want to make you mine,” said Sherlock in a gravelly voice, his own cock finally stirring. “Again.”  
  
John’s eyes darkened. He licked his lips and smiled. Then they both got to their feet, and he nodded to the cage.  
  
“And, for my part, if that’s the reaction when it comes off, I might be up for putting it on again.”


	8. Bed-sharing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Bed-sharing  
>  **Prompt:** One Night Only  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Content Notes:** Bed-sharing; masturbation; Sherlock/John (mutual pining); POV Sherlock; angst  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock and John share a bed

A hotel error. One reservation. No extra rooms.  
  
We are sharing a bed for the night. One night only.  
  
A few awkward words. An awkward cough.  
  
You sleep. I do not.  
  
I record the changes in your respiratory rate as you move in and out of different stages of sleep. I try—and fail—to measure the dip in the mattress, your warmth. Minute by minute, you shift closer. Unconsciously, I know, but still. Flattering. Romantic, even. You, moving closer to me, even in your sleep.  
  
I am on my side, facing the wall, curled away. Finally, you are next to me.  
  
My treacherous transport responds to your proximity immediately, but I do not move.  
  
You, on the other hand, begin to rock against me. Minute thrusts. I imagine rolling, offering you the space between my thighs; a well-slicked, well-stretched arsehole; my fist; any orifice or crevice you wished.  
  
A fantasy. I do nothing.  
  
You wake with a swallowed gasp, your body tense.  
  
You check.  
  
I am sleeping, John. See? Not to worry.  
  
You relax. Breathe deeply.  
  
I mourn the loss of your heat as you roll away.  
  
Another check.  
  
Oh, John.  
  
Are you? You are.  
  
Spitting. Taking your prick in hand.  
  
I record the changes in your respiratory rate as you pump, but all data collection is suspended at a final, bitten cry.  
  
“Sh—“  
  
My name. It is my name. Two letters, one sound.  
  
Nothing will ever dissuade me of that fact. Not conjecture. Not wishful thinking. Fact.  
  
You leave. Toilet. You return. Check.  
  
Still sleeping, John.  
  
Then, I hear a second sound, the most beautiful sound I will ever hear: a sigh.  
  
Full, long, unabashed.  
  
Satisfied, sated, content.  
  
I will never hear it again.  
  
By afternoon, you are wedded.  
  
I am in my eightieth year. I confess there are many things that were once, but are no longer, in the grasp of my intellect. I am no longer, for example, able to identify 243 types of tobacco ash. That night, however, is engraved on my memory, chiselled, much like the words on the dark stone before me. 

  
**_JOHN HAMISH WATSON_ **  
**_BELOVED HUSBAND, FATHER, FRIEND_ **


	9. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Mirror  
>  **Prompt:** Ink  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Content Notes:** Writing on the body; mutual masturbation, Sherlock/John; miscommunication; reference to canon story “The Six Napoleons,” POV John  
>  **Summary:** The morning after Sherlock  & John’s first time.  
>  **Author’s Note:** Inspired by [Timeline](http://archiveofourown.org/works/149256) by entanglednow; with one line taken from that fic.

I woke to an insect flitting down my back with considerable force and speed.

No, not flitting. Scratching. And a familiar baritone muttering.

“…so the critical period was one o’clock to two…before that, Abernetty supposedly had an alibi…”

Paper fluttered like wings.

“…it was early August…some prescient lad took a photograph…well done…”

So this was the morning after with Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock, are you drawing a crime timeline on me?”

“Don’t move. Don’t think. You were much less distracting when you were asleep, John.”

His pillow talk was atrocious, but what did I expect? Cuddling? Declarations of undying love?

“…what’s that…butter…with a sprig of herb…could be parsley…”

The scratching resumed.

My body lay motionless, but my thoughts wandered to the events of the previous night. Sherlock and I had run the distance back to Baker Street and ended up side-by-side against the wall just inside the front door. It was similar to a scene during our first case; that scene had concluded with Mrs. Hudson’s interruption and announcement of the police presence upstairs.

This time, there was no interruption.

Eyes locked, chests heaving, we grinned, and then it seemed the most natural thing in the world for Sherlock to close the distance between us and, without a word, kiss me.

The kiss set a precedent for the remainder of night for we made our way up the stairs and down the hall to Sherlock’s bedroom, kissing and discarding clothing, without speaking.

Then we were naked, kneeling on the bed, each with a spit-slicked hand on the other’s cock, still grinning and, and here I can only speak for my part, still feeling the post-case adrenaline rush.

There were no words. Loud panting, soft grunts, even a moan when Sherlock’s hand made an especially dexterous twist over the head of my prick, but no words.

Sherlock came with a guttural groan. I followed his lead and, using a skill I had honed in the army, came without a sound. Upon climaxing, however, my energy deserted me, and I fell asleep just as a wet flannel brushed my stomach.

“…exterior temperature…ambient temperature…oh, this is it!...the timeline is all wrong…”

The scratching was deep, almost painful. And then it stopped.

“Oh, he was a clever one, but I am cleverer!”

“Solve it?”

“Naturally.”

I turned. There was nothing unusual in his expression; it bore that custom Holmesian blend of aloofness and intellectual superiority; as if every day I woke up in his bed, naked save for the ink that he himself had applied.

He tossed the biro on the duvet, and the message was loud and clear.

Nothing’s changed. Still married to my Work.

I rose and gestured to my back. “Do you need to copy this somewhere?”

“No. Eidetic memory.”

“Right.”

As I made my way to the door, he mumbled something. I waved a hand, my left hand, and said,

“Shower.” 

* * *

After the shower, I was a new man. I had sent my petty resentment swirling down the drain with the ink-tinted water.  
Just bit of fun after a case. And that was fine. It was all fine.

And to demonstrate my new-found equanimity, I made tea and offered him a cup.

“So tell me about the case.”

His eyes flashed with incredulity and suspicion, but I kept my own gaze open and friendly.

“Please,” I insisted.

“Very well.” He sipped the tea. “It is a cold case, very cold, actually, but also dreadful, concerning a family by the name of Abernetty…”

“So you solved a case based on the depth to which the parsley had sunk into the butter on a hot day, a hot day that occurred more than one hundred years ago?”

He smiled and nodded.

I shook my head. “Extraordinary. I know you tire of hearing it…”

He shrugged. “I don’t, really.” Then he waved his hand, his right hand. I stared. It was an oddly familiar gesture. I felt as if I was looking in a mirror. Suddenly, a sequence of thoughts fell like a cascade of dominoes.

I blurted, “Did you say something?”

He scowled. “No.” He picked up his tea and fled to the sitting room.

I followed. “No, I mean earlier, when I was on my way to the shower. I was distracted, and I didn’t hear it if you did.”  
He looked at me with those sharp grey eyes, the ones that could pick out a clue in a grainy photo from the 19th century.  
I let him read me, hiding nothing.

Then finally he said, “I asked if it was any good.”

Holy Mary!

I sputtered. “The sex? Are you barking?” Now it was my turn to display incredulity. “I mean, the end alone should have—“

“I’m given to understand that the involuntary discharge of seminal fluid during sexual congress is not the sole indicator of a satisfactory encounter.”

I strode towards him, letting his words sink in my mind like, well, parsley in butter on a hot Victorian day.

“It was great,” I said. I took his cup of tea and set it on the desk. Then I reached up and, holding his head in my hands, pressed my lips to his in a long, soft, and what I hoped was reassuring, kiss.

“You think otherwise?” I asked when I finally pulled away. His hands were still by his sides.

“Lubricant.”

I blinked.

“I did not have the forethought to purchase any.”

“Oh, well. I’ve got some upstairs, so next time…”

His eyes flickered.

I licked my lips and grinned. “I’d like there to be a next time, if you’re amenable.”

“Really?”

He looked less like himself than I’d ever seen.

“How can you deduce a murderer from one antique photograph and fail to observe that I am well and truly smitten, Sherlock Holmes?”

He looked down. “In the professional arena, you are normally effusive in your praise, so I thought perhaps…”

“As in the professional arena, I was following your lead.”

“I believe in this particular sphere, John, it is you who had best take the lead.”

“Well then,” I said, taking his hand, “why don’t we go upstairs and put all doubts to rest?”

He smiled.

I led him to the foot of the stairs, but then the full impact of his words finally hit.

“Sherlock, was last night your first?”

“No,” he said quickly. I turned and looked at him. “But nearly,”’ he added.

“In that case, I believe we have a long day ahead of us.”

Sherlock Holmes, sleeping.

Now there was a photograph. I watched his breath rise and fall, studying the bare canvas of his back.

Then I had an idea. 

* * *

I dropped the biro and a hand mirror on the bed and admired my handiwork one last time.

ƨuoludɒᖷ luʇɿɘbnoW ƨuobnɘmɘɿT  
ƚnɒilliɿᙠ YЯAИIᗡЯOAЯTXƎ ƨuoɘǫɿoᎮ  
lɒnoiƚqɘɔxƎ ɔiƚƨɒƚnɒᖷ ǫnizɒmA

Then I tiptoed from the room.


	10. Have Birch, Will Travel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Have Birch, Will Travel  
>  **Prompt:** Ink  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content Notes:** Alternate Universe; crack; references to flogging; one reference to assault; Watson  & Holmes; cisswap/genderswap; POV Watson  
>  **Summary:** Watson pinch-hits for her aunt, the girl-flogger of Clifton.  
>  **Author’s Note:** According to _The English Vice: Beating, Sex, and Shame in Victorian England and After_ by Ian Gibson, Mrs. Walter Smith existed; she had a school and offered her services to parents of unruly children in their homes. The advertisement is cribbed together from two that ran in The Daily Telegraph and The Times in October 1889.

As I read the advertisement for the third time, I noticed that the ink from the newsprint had smudged the fingers and thumb of my hand.   
  
** BAD TEMPER, Hysteria, Idleness, etc. CURED by strict discipline. Excellent references. ‘Hints on Management’, ‘Training of Children’, and ‘The Rod’, 1s. Advice by letter, 5s. Address, Mrs. Walter, Clifton.  **  
  
Surely it was a hoax. The whole situation was the kind of elaborate prank that Harry favoured, in her more sober moments. But for the scrap of paper in my other hand—a handwritten address—I would never have agreed to such a farcical mission. It was not the words, but rather the penmanship that had forced my hand.    
  
My mother’s.   
  
She had looked more relieved than pleased to see me, though I had spent no little effort and sum to locate her in Clifton. She offered the most absurd rationale for her abrupt change of locale. I had no memory of an aunt named Mrs. Walter Smith, much less her late husband, a clergyman and long-time headmaster of All Saints School, therefore why should I, in the face of her confined-to-bed illness, be conscripted to carry out her obligation? And only moments after my arrival, no less?    
  
But protests were futile in the face of a mother’s dogged persistence. She thrust the birch rod in my hand and pushed me out the door with a ‘Remember, full payment is required prior to services rendered, my dear.’   
  
So here I was, about to provide discipline ‘of the lower variety’ to a young girl whom I had never met. I checked the address for the third time and waited for a response to my knock, certain that as soon as the door opened, the exact nature of the joke would be revealed.    
  
But no.    
  
The maid seemed to expect me and even pressed an envelope into my hand before ushering me into the library.   
  
My mouth fell open at the sight.    
  
A girl—no, decidedly _not_ a girl, a woman—was bound at the wrists and ankles to a padded A-shaped frame. I walked around to her head, which she lifted slightly.    
  
Her face was dangerously flushed, and her tone slurred. “You’re not Mrs. Walter Smith, the girl-flogger of Clifton.”   
  
“You’re not a girl.” She could not be more than six years younger than I was.    
  
I quickly propped the birch rod against the wall, removed my coat, and produced a small blade from one of its pockets.    
  
“Useful that,” she remarked as I cut the ties at her wrists and helped her to rise. I sighed when the alarming colour in her cheeks finally began to fade.   
  
As she was effectively in my embrace, I studied her, and she studied me.   
  
The first thing I noticed was a pair of sharp, piercing grey eyes, which were framed by a mass of dark hair. She had a thin, hawk-like nose and a prominent, square chin. They were features that, in a man, would have suggested alertness, decision, and determination.   
  
In her, they suggested alertness, decision, and determination.   
  
“You’ve never birched anyone in your life.”    
  
It was a hard accusation, and shamefully, I allowed myself to be baited.    
  
“I know how to make little girls take their medicine,” I replied hotly, at once, embarrassed at the ‘frightful governess’ in my tone.   
  
She smirked. “Nurse. But not the shameless, gluttonous, drinking kind. That would be your sister.”    
  
“How—?”   
  
She huffed. “Your words, naturally. Your dress, too, is obviously of the sick-room-frequenter variety. It has had a previous owner, going by the fit, and it’s clear that it became too small for her, but is far too large for you.”   
  
“And the drinking?”   
  
“Its previous owner didn’t care if a certain bottle of spirits left an imprint in the pocket over time. Qualifies as shameless, no?”   
  
I looked down. “Oh, good Lord! I never even noticed...”    
  
“Most people don’t.”   
  
“Dare I ask what offense warranted your mother and father to engage the services of—?“   
  
“My mother and father are dead. I have an aunt.”   
  
“Don’t we all?” I quipped.   
  
Her lips twitched in what I suspected was her version of a smile. “My aunt has recently come under the influence of a clergyman with rather archaic views on discipline and punishment.”   
  
“Someone who confuses Samuel Butler with King Solomon.”   
  
There was the twitch again. “Precisely.”   
  
“But what offense could warrant this?”    
  
“I stole a corpse.”   
  
My jaw dropped. “Good Lord!”   
  
“And flogged it.”   
  
“Whatever for?!”   
  
“I wanted to compare the pattern of bruising after death to that of another body.”   
  
“And?”   
  
“And what? My aunt decided to have me professionally birched.”   
  
“No, I mean, what did you learn by your comparison?”   
  
She stared at me for a long while. Then she blinked and stammered “N-n-no one’s ever asked me that.”   
  
“Well?”    
  
“The charwoman had been dead at least twelve, not six hours, therefore it’s perfectly plausible that her husband could have killed her—and then beat her.”   
  
“Did you tell the local authorities?”   
  
“No one listens to me.” She pouted.   
  
“So why didn’t your aunt turn you over the authorities?”   
  
“That would’ve cause a scandal.”   
  
“And this?!” I said, gesturing to the room around us.    
  
“Solomon’s wisdom,” she grumbled. Then she wrenched from my grasp. I stepped aside, and she threw her upper body back down upon the frame. “Just get on with it, will you?”   
  
I bent down and spoke into her ear. “Are you dependent on this aunt?”   
  
“Yes. Well, I have a sister in London. If I could get there, she might help. I want to start a business.”   
  
“Corpse-flogging?”   
  
“Problem-solving.”    
  
I laughed. “I think the first problem you need to solve is your own.”    
  
She hummed. “True. I haven’t any ready money of my own.”    
  
The decision weighed heavily on my shoulders. As I considered the possibilities and consequences of each, my eyes drifted to her figure stretched over the frame. She was completely clothed, but there was something wrong. Then I looked at the birch rod and frowned,   
  
“Did you take your knickers off or did she?”   
  
“He,” she said softly.    
  
Decision made.    
  
I went to my coat and retrieved the envelope. Then I tapped her on the shoulder, and, as she turned her head, opened it.    
  
“Enough for two tickets to London, no?”    
  
She grinned. “Yes.”    
  
“Ready to put on a show?”   
  
“Always.”

* * *

_ WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! _  
  
“OW! OW! OW!” she yelled, grinning. 

* * *

“Especially recalcitrant cases like this one need to be taken to Mrs. Smith’s school for intense discipline,” I said gruffly as I led her out the door. “She’ll be back by supper!”

* * *

We giggled all the way to the station.   
  
“I don’t even know your name,” I said.    
  
“Holmes.” She held out her hand.   
  
“Watson.” I hesitated. “I’ve got ink on my hand.”   
  
She grabbed it and shook with a firm grasp. “No matter. My hands are invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals.”    
  
As we boarded, I made to throw the birch rod away, but she stopped me.    
  
“No, keep it. It will be a memento of the day we met.”   
  
And that is how the birch rod came to hang on the wall of 221B and whenever anyone asks about it, Holmes always makes the same joke about my brief, but memorable, career as a professional flogger.    
  
Then, of course, I am obliged to tell the whole story, and it never fails to bring a smile to our lips.


	11. Teeth Marks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Teeth Marks  
>  **Prompt:** Ink  
>  **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Content Notes:** Omegaverse; Alpha!Sherlock/Omega!John; heat sex; knotting; bonding; fisting; references to assault; references to psychological trauma; references to suicide. Hurt/comfort.  
>  **Summary:** John doesn’t want a bond-bite.

Sherlock hated being an Alpha.   
  
It was easy enough to deduce the decrease in John’s army pension from the parade of expressions that crossed his face as he opened the official-looking envelope (curiosity); read the contents of the letter thrice (disbelief); returned the letter to its envelope and dropped it on the kitchen table (disgust); and stood, staring at the wall whilst his hand hovered unconsciously over the wallet-shaped bulge in his trouser pocket (anger, fear).  
  
Sherlock’s eyes made all the necessary observations. His mind made all the necessary connections. He did not need to _sense_ a distressed Omega through the ether. It was such a weak, subjective form of knowledge, not based on data or anything remotely empirical. Just a feeling.  
  
Even more, Sherlock did not want to acknowledge in himself the involuntary Alpha response to John’s distress. He’d already dismissed two possibilities. Any overt offer of money would be be refused. Any covert act—say, hacking into and altering a military database—with the same aim would be viewed with suspicion and, if truth discovered, might be considered worse insult.   
  
So he would continue to peruse the _Journal of Forensic Sciences_ and if John asked for his assistance, he would give it.   
  
As a friend. Colleague. Whatever.  
  
Sherlock’s wait was short. In less than twenty minutes, John was leaning forward and asking a most unanticipated question,  
  
“Sherlock, have you ever shared a heat with an Omega?”   
  


* * *

  
John hated being an Omega and no more so than today. The army was eliminating the free provision of heat supplements to Omegas not in active service. From a bureaucratic viewpoint, it probably made sense: an easy way to trim costs as supplements were expensive and there were so few Omegas in the army due to the requirement of sterility. But it meant disaster for John. He would have to purchase the supplements himself or find an Alpha to share his heats.   
  
The latter option meant a heat centre.  
  
No!   
  
He pushed foul memories to the dark recesses of his mind.   
  
He would just have to find extra work, a lot of extra work, in fact. He sighed.  
  
He was in the middle of some crude wage calculations when his eyes finally lit upon Sherlock, lounging in his armchair, idly flipping the pages of a journal.   
  
Sherlock was an Alpha.   
  
They had known each other for such a brief period of time, it was difficult to say if, apart from the massive intellect and myriad of eccentricities, Sherlock was like any other Alpha or if he was unconventional in all aspects of his person.    
  
John considered his alternatives. Then he sat down in his armchair and leaned forward.  
  


* * *

  
“I don’t want a bond-bite. In fact, I insist on no bond-bite, and if you think that you might not be capable of restraining yourself, then this conversation is over. The question of pregnancy is moot. The army made sure I was sterile before they allowed me to serve.”  
  
Sherlock relaxed. It seemed that in a few statements, John had slain his initial concerns.  
  
“My knowledge of Omega heat is theoretical, John, but we pass day after day living and working together, surely that must speak to my restraint.”  
  
John’s smile was tense. “Heat is different.”   
  
“I am different or hadn’t you noticed?” Sherlock instantly wondered why he was insisting. Did he _want_ to share John’s heat? No, he merely wanted to help a friend.   
  
Colleague. Whatever.  
  
But _whatever_ might be threatened by this new development. “We could travel elsewhere, somewhere outside London, to pass the heat,” Sherlock suggested.  
  
“Good idea. It’s only once every three months. My last heat was forty-eight hours, though up to a week is possible. A hotel room?”  
  
“There’s a cottage in Sussex that I’ve been eyeing as a retirement investment. Secluded. Private.”   
  
Fear. Sherlock read it in John’s widening eyes and his stiffening posture, but it was the Alpha in him that responded in a low voice. “Or if you’d feel more comfortable, here.”  
  
“No, no.” John spoke as if to himself. “Your suggestion makes more sense. Let’s keep our day-to-day life separate. So, we have a deal?”  
  
“Deal.”  
  
They shook hands.  
  


* * *

  
John buried his face in the bedding. All thought was reduced to three words.  
  
_ Don’t bite me. Don’t bite me. Don’t bite me.  _  
  


* * *

  
“I presented very late in life. For my first heat, I engaged an Alpha from a heat centre,” said John, keeping his eyes fixed on the changing landscape beyond the train window. “He signed the routine contract, which included a no bond-biting provision, but during the heat he became overwhelmed by pheromones. Resisting him was unpleasant. I joined the army soon after.”   
  
Sherlock nodded. He deduced as much when he first spotted a scar on John’s back, one that pre-dated the vestiges of his war injuries.   
  
Teeth marks.  
  
They were near, but not on, John’s bond site.   
  
At the time, Sherlock had quickly quashed his flare of irrational Alpha anger and made a note to investigate if John ever mentioned the centre by name. Then he had returned to the task at hand.  
  
He had been gentle, well as gentle as a dozen or so knottings in rapid sequence could be, but upon realising that his attempts at soothing John were having absolutely no effect on the thick miasma of fear that enveloped them, had shifted his focus to making the experience as brief as possible.   
  
In that, he’d had some measure of success, for in thirty-six hours after their arrival in Sussex, they were on their return journey to London.   
  
“Thank you,” said John. “I appreciate your patience and…”  
  
“Restraint?”  
  
John smiled and nodded.   
  
“Would you like to repeat the experience?” Sherlock held his breath.  
  
“Yes, if you’re amenable. I can’t imagine if was very enjoyable for you.”  
  
Sherlock shrugged. “I am amenable.” He was carefully to maintain a cool façade, but inside, the Alpha preened and guarded the moment like hoarded treasure.  
  
It would challenging to help John overcome his fear, just as Sherlock had helped him overcome his phantom war injuries. It would be interesting from a psychological point of view. It might even be beneficial—greater understanding, greater trust—in terms of the Work. He was helping a friend. Colleague. Whatever.  
  
All very logical. Reasonable. Rationale.  
  


* * *

  
“Massage?! Now?!” John looked down at Sherlock’s leaking cock and felt his own secretions dripping down his inner thighs.  
  
“It hardly matters at other times, does it? If you were more familiar with my touch, then perhaps your anxiety would be lessened during the actual coupling.”  
  
Sherlock’s voice sounded clinical and oddly reassuring. John crawled onto the bed.   
  
“On your back.”   
  
Sherlock’s hands moved slowly, methodically, up John’s legs, kneading and rubbing from toes to thighs. He worked silently. And he never, not once, took his eyes off John’s. Not when he hooked John’s legs over his shoulders, not when he sank his cock in John, not when he pumped until the knot formed, not when he ejaculated in John, not when the knot loosened and he pulled out of John.   
  
When the first round was over, Sherlock collapsed on the bed beside John, leaving a space between their parallel bodies.   
  
John rolled on his side and smiled.    
  


* * *

  
Every coupling had followed the same sequence, including the same position of John on his back, beneath Sherlock. It was not the most comfortable arrangement physically, especially with the knot, but it afforded John the best view of Sherlock. Sherlock’s theory was that if John could see, and anticipate, Sherlock’s movements then he would be less afraid.  
  
And it had been effective.   
  
John’s fears were fading. The Alpha sensed— _there was that_ _hideous word again!_ —it, just as he sensed that the heat was coming to an end.   
  
As Sherlock entered John for the last time, John did something extraordinary.   
  
He closed his eyes.  
  
He closed his eyes and lifted his hips and squeezed tightly around Sherlock’s cock. And not just one squeeze, a rhythm of tightening and releasing.   
  
John was _milking_ Sherlock’s cock.   
  
Sherlock’s mouth fell open as his pleasure intensified exponentially. The knot formed, and his pleasure continued until he had shot stream after stream of hot seed into John.  
  
When John finally opened his eyes, there was a mischievous light in his eyes and his lips were curled in a teasing smirk.   
Sherlock huffed in mock indignation and wiped the sweat from his brow.  
  


* * *

  
John had done the impossible.   
  
No, John had done what, until today, he’d though impossible, but was, in reality, only highly improbable.  
  
He’d surprised Sherlock Holmes. And he’d given an Alpha his first true taste of an Omega.   
  
He tried not to smirk, and failed.   
  
He and Sherlock had been exchanging silent, surreptitious glances since the train had left the station.  
  
Finally, John said, “Thank you. I appreciate your patience and…”  
  
“Restraint?”  
  
John nodded.   
  
“Would you like to repeat the experience?” Sherlock was holding John’s gaze just as he had for the duration of the heat. Gently. Firmly.  
“Yes, if you’re amenable.”  
  
“I am amenable,” said Sherlock.   
  
John watched Sherlock’s mouth as he pronounced the words—that perfect Cupid’s bow, that plump bottom lip—and thought how nice it was to not once think of the teeth that lay behind them.   
  


* * *

  
Three months passed, full of clients and crime scenes; cups of tea and bits of toast. There were sibling crises, of a case of so-called national security and a return trip to rehab. And rows, the fiercest being about the toaster oven, which had to be replaced twice.  
  
To the casual observer, nothing had changed at 221B, but Sherlock Holmes was the very opposite of a casual observer.   
  
He had noted, for example, that John’s eyes lingered on him for 1.5 second longer than average when he wore the aubergine shirt—the one he was wearing at this very moment as the train pulled out of the state—and as a result he increased the frequency of the garment’s rotation in his wardrobe. Nothing dramatic, of course, nothing that would catch John’s notice, a mere one additional wear a fortnight.   
  
The Alpha, of course, had secretly rejoiced in the extra three seconds of attention a month received.    
  
On one rare occasion when Sherlock had anticipated climbing about in dank shipping containers, he had worn jeans. Later, much later actually as he and John had been trapped in one of said containers for a few hours, Sherlock had noted that John spent an extra eight minutes in the shower. A true scientist, Sherlock was loathe to conflate correlation with causation.   
  
The Alpha, however, revelled in the thought of John masturbating to his denim-clad arse.   
  
Was this heat going to be different? Perhaps. The Alpha certainly sensed it. And perhaps the Omega had, too, as John had arranged for a large hamper of provisions to be delivered to the cottage. That was novel and suggested more than the single day experience that they had shared thus far.  
  
Sherlock was considering what amendments to make to his original heat strategy when John’s words cut through his thoughts.  
  
“Thank goodness the pheromones sort of wipe the memory banks clean at the end, heat makes one speak and act so curiously.”   
  
It was a lie, or to be more precise a myth, one much favoured by betas.    
  
John was staring out the window when Sherlock replied dryly, “Yes, what a wonder of biology, that!”   
  
Yes, this heat was going to be different.   
  
The Alpha howled.   
  


* * *

  
John wanted Sherlock. And if he could wait long enough for the suitcases to hit the floor and the curtains to flutter closed, he would have him.  
  


* * *

  
John looked at Sherlock. No, John’s eyes travelled up and down Sherlock, devouring him.   
  
Sherlock quickly found the lubricant that he had packed. Then it seemed the most natural thing in the world to open his trousers and take his own cock in hand and show John just how much he wanted him.   
  
Very soon they had both settled in armchairs, which were still covered in drape. They sat opposite each other, much as they did at the Baker Street flat. Sherlock was still pumping his cock, a little more slowly and unevenly now as his attention was fixed on John, who was naked from the waist down, legs splayed, teasing his own hole with two lubed fingers.   
  
Sherlock watched as one finger, then a second, pushed inside. Then he grunted and thrust up into his own fist. John licked his lips, and Sherlock thought how magnificent it would be to see those lips, that tongue, wrapped around—  
  
The Alpha sensed the instant that the heat had begun.   
  
And so did the Omega, for without preamble, John walked the three steps that separated them and climbed into Sherlock’s lap and sank down on his cock.   
  
Sherlock spied a second set of teeth marks above John’s right nipple. He deleted them. Anger would not serve him now.   
He thrust up into John, jostling him.   
  
Oh, the milking had already begun, that sweet caress hidden between them. It was the stuff of lurid fantasy, if Sherlock ever allowed himself such indulgence, which he hadn’t, for three months.   
  
The knot formed, and Sherlock came.   
  
As the knot slacked, however, the milking resumed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at John’s smile. Then John’s lips parted.  
  
“Sherlock.”   
  
It was the first word that either had uttered during a heat, and it dripped with lust, with want.   
  
The Alpha would not be denied.   
  
Sherlock lifted John even as his knotted cock was still spitting seed deep inside him, and they moved as one, with John’s legs wrapped tight around Sherlock waist, to the bed.   
  
Sherlock lay John gently on his back. Then he began to thrust and chant the only word that mattered.  
“John. John. John.”   
  
John closed his eyes.   
  


* * *

  
They were side by side, facing each other, when John sensed the second round approaching.  
  
The Omega would not be denied.  
  
He rolled away from Sherlock and wiggled backwards until his damp arse brushed against Sherlock’s hardening cock.  
  
Then Sherlock’s hand was under John’s thigh, raising it, and then the head of Sherlock’s cock was teasing John’s hole, merely tracing his rim.   
  
Suddenly John pushed back, impaling himself on the cock until it was fully sheathed. He heard Sherlock exhale.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
Well, that was novel. And hilarious. John giggled.   
  
The knot formed.   
  
Sherlock took John’s hand in his and brought it to his mouth, and for the remainder of the second knotting, he sucked John’s fingers.   
  
_ To show me that he won’t bite _ .   
  
John blinked back tears and called Sherlock’s name, hoping that the word conveyed even half of the tenderness that he felt in that moment for the most unconventional Alpha he had ever known.  
  


* * *

  
John blinked back tears.  
  
Sherlock quickly brought John’s hands to the base of his cock. The warm, wet heat of John’s mouth was too inviting, especially when it had been prefaced by John kneeling between Sherlock’s legs and greedily suckling each of Sherlock’s sacs in turn.  
  
Sherlock might be an unconventional Alpha, but the dimensions of his cock were not, and they far exceeded those of John’s oral cavity.   
  
But even half his cock in John’s mouth, with the remainder being squeezed and stroked by John’s hands, was exquisite.   
  
Without the knot, Sherlock’s load was comparatively small, but John drank it down like a honeyed elixir. Then he began to lick Sherlock’s testicles anew.   
  
How did John know of his preference? How did he know that on the rare occasion when Sherlock masturbated, one hand was always lower, fondling, while the other stroked?  Had he observed something during a heat? At the flat? Or had the Omega simple sensed it?  
  
Sherlock had no time to ponder further questions as his cock was rising again, and this time, John’s mouth would not suffice.   
  


* * *

  
After the fourth coupling, John led Sherlock back to the sitting room. They fed each other fruit and bits of cheese and bread. John pressed a bottle of water to Sherlock’s lips over and over and only when Sherlock had drained it, did he offer him sips of wine.   
  
After a single glass, Sherlock was dozing on the sofa.  
  
So uncommon was the experience of being near Sherlock as he slept that John, despite his own fatigue, had curled on the floor against an armchair opposite him and simply watched.  
  
Sherlock was beautiful. His skin, his lanky limbs and long fingers. Sinewy muscles attached to gangly bones. Dark eyelashes, sharp cheekbones, dusky nipples, wiry pubic hair.   
  
And, of course, the behemoth cock.   
  
Which also, miraculously, appeared to be sleeping.   
  
Then John realised that he did not want the cock to be sleeping. He wanted it inside him, filling him.  Now.  
  
No! Sherlock needed to rest. John turned away and averted his gaze from Sherlock’s nude form. The Omega could wait.  
  
Now! The Omega would _not_ wait. He would rouse the Alpha cock with his mouth and hands and pleasure himself while the Alpha slept.  
  
Ridiculous! No! John’s fingers went to his own hole. These would have to suffice.   
  
They would _not_ suffice!   
  
John gritted his teeth.    
  
“John.”   
  
John looked over his shoulder and a wave of relief washed over him.   
  
Sherlock was gesturing to his hard cock. “Come.”   
  
John flew to the sofa.   
  
Then he was riding Sherlock, letting those long-fingered hands on his hips guide his rocking and bouncing.   
  
John’s pleasure was near perfect, and he was thoroughly enjoying the last of the hot streaks painting the inside of his body when Sherlock whispered,   
  
“Bend closer.”  
  
John brought his upper body towards Sherlock’s and Sherlock lifted his head until he could take John’s nipple in his mouth and suck.  
John bucked hard into Sherlock, calling his name.  
  
Sherlock must have deduced it, probably the night after the shipping container case. Something must’ve told Sherlock that John had been teasing his own nipples as he wanked furiously to the image of Sherlock in jeans. What exactly, John didn’t know and would probably never know, but right now, he didn’t care.   
  
Sherlock was bathing his right nipple with a soft, warm tongue. The left was already soaked and pebbled from Sherlock’s attentions.   
  
John reached for his own cock. Sherlock batted his hand away.  
  
“Sherlock!”   
  


* * *

  
John’s cock was delicious. And the noises—of both surprise and pleasure—that Sherlock’s bobbing and sucking elicited were equally delicious.   
  
Two of Sherlock’s fingers were pumping in and out of John’s cunt as he lavished John’s cock.   
  
“More,” John pleaded, holding Sherlock’s wrist.  
  
John was loose, of course, how could he not be, so Sherlock added a third.   
  
The pleading continued. And continued.  
  
“John?”  
  
Sherlock had pulled off John’s cock to look into his eyes.   
  
“Please,” John insisted. “More.”  
  
Sherlock found the lubricant where it had untouched since their first coupling.   
  
Then after careful preparation, he pushed his whole hand inside John. When only he was satisfied that John was only stretched and not torn, did his bend his head and suck John’s cock to climax.   
  


* * *

  
John woke to his name. Without opening his eyes, he spread his legs and welcomed Sherlock’s cock inside him and was rocked back to sleep by Sherlock’s thrusting.  
  


* * *

  
John woke again to his name. He spread his legs, but this time it was not a hungry Alpha cock that entered him.   
  
Something smaller, wetter, softer.   
  
An Alpha tongue.  
  
John’s eyes fluttered open. He was on laying prone on the bed, with his arse raised.  
  
The Omega immediately sensed the shift and pulled away from Sherlock’s mouth.   
  
John sat up and turned and rolled onto his back. Then he met Sherlock’s eyes and smiled.   
  


* * *

  
After the final knotting, John had made to rise from the bed, but Sherlock laid a hand on his.   
  
Sherlock had the lubricant in hand. He watched John watch him coat one of his own fingers. And tease his own hole.  
  
Then he pressed the bottle of lubricant into John’s hand.  
  
John’s eyes widened.   
  
Sherlock nodded. “For comparison’s sake, John. Research.” He tried for a casual shrug, but knew that the strain in his voice had given him away.  
  
Then he laid down on his stomach and gave himself over to John.  
  


* * *

  
It took a long time to fuck Sherlock. Compared to the heat, it was a painstakingly slow process with lots of pauses to rub hands lightly up and down Sherlock’s back and pepper kisses along his spine. But John persisted and by the time he had mounted Sherlock and spent his own seed inside him, he’d made a discovery.  
  


* * *

  
John waited until they were both showered and dressed and had set the cottage to rights before he confessed, “I don’t hate being an Omega anymore.”   
  
Sherlock stared and blinked and swallowed. Then he leaned down and kissed John’s lips.   
  
And they stood like that, in the doorway of the cottage, kissing, holding each other, until they were forced to take a later train to London.  
  


* * *

  
It was dark beyond the train window when John said, “Thank you. I appreciate your patience and…”  
  
“Restraint?”   
  
Their eyes met, and then they turned their heads and burst into laughter.  
  
John nodded, wiping his eyes with his jumper sleeve. Sherlock offered him a handkerchief, which he took. “Remarkable, that restraint of yours,” he added, chuckling.  
  
“Would you like to repeat the experience?” asked Sherlock with a snort.  
  
“Oh, God, yes. If you’re amenable.”  
  
“I’m amenable.”   
  


* * *

  
John shifted in his seat and winced. He was already sore and might be for days.   
  
He glanced over at Sherlock and caught a fleeting twitch of lips.   
  
“Don’t start behaving like an ordinary Alpha brute now!” he teased.   
  
“Nonsense” was Sherlock’s reply.  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock remembered that reply two months later. After the words “ _If you had killed John, you would not have got out of this room alive!_ ” had left his lips.  
  
  
A brutish, ordinary Alpha thing to say, but at the time, Sherlock had meant every word. It had been a counterfeiting case, and a somewhat ludicrous one at that, but it had taken all of Sherlock’s restraint to resist filleting Evans and roasting him on coals for the ‘mere scratch’ his weapon had inflicted on John.  
  
John had healed.   
  
Sherlock had not.   
  
His rationale Self and his Alpha were at war constantly, even as the train travelled from London to Sussex.  
  
If John and he were bonded…but John didn’t want to bond. That was more than nine months ago. A lot had changed.  
  
Sherlock shook his head. The Alpha continued to seethe.  
  
Why didn’t John want to bond with him? Did he think Sherlock couldn’t protect him? Did he think that Sherlock couldn’t provide for him?  
  
Nonsense. John was a friend. Colleague. Whatever. He didn’t need Sherlock’s protection, and he certainly didn’t need his provision.  
  
Of course he did. John was his Omega.   
  
No! Not _his_ Omega.   
  
Yes! John was Sherlock’s Omega just as Sherlock was John’s Alpha.   
  
The battle raged on.   
  


* * *

  
John hoped that the heat would help to mend the rift between him and Sherlock. It had nothing to do with John’s superficial injury, which had healed quickly and without scarring, and everything to do with the conflict he saw playing out inside Sherlock.   
  
Sherlock would erupt in sudden outbursts of over-protectiveness and jealousy. Then his face would fall and he would recoil from John, brooding silently. John could not reach him during these dark moods, which sometimes lasted for days.   
  
The first coupling had been as their last, with John on his back, beneath Sherlock. Then John had turned and wriggled his bottom against Sherlock’s cock.   
  
Instantly, John sensed the shift.   
  
Sherlock gripped him by the neck and pushed him face-first into the mattress. He had mounted John and began thrusting roughly. Then he had jerked John up by the hair until their bodies met.   
  
Then he had licked John’s neck. The left side of his neck.  
  
John tensed, but Sherlock continued, thrusting, licking.  
  
When John felt the pinching pressure of teeth, he screamed.   
  
“NO!”  
  


* * *

  
Sherlock opened his eyes.   
  
John was trembling. He wrenched away from Sherlock and scurried to the far side of the room.   
  
“DON’T BITE ME!” he snarled.  
  
Sherlock stared. He opened his mouth and then closed it. Twice.   
  
Then he ran out of the cottage and into the autumn night.  
  
The tall, thick hedge blocked Sherlock’s view of the ocean, but he could still hear the waves.   
  
He would throw himself in the waters. The only way to kill the parasite was to kill the host. He’d violated John’s trust, the trust they’d built moment by moment for months. He’d broken his own code and done what until now he’d always considered impossible, but now realised, much too late, was only highly improbable: he abandoned all rational, logical thought and had behaved like an ordinary, brutish Alpha.  
  
Blinded by heat pheromones. Consumed with jealousy at the sight of another Alpha’s teeth marks on his Omega. Fuelled by pride and a feral desire to claim his Omega, once and for all.  
  
Sherlock listened. The tide was receding. It would wash his body out to sea. One thought stopped his descent to the shore:  if he died, here, now, John would be left in heat, alone.And as ordinary and brutish as Sherlock was, he would not compound one violation with another.  
  
Sherlock stomped back into the cottage and, upon finding a sheet, ripped it into strips. Then he took a straight chair and sat it in the middle of the sitting room. He called John’s name, then gagged himself and bound his feet by the ankles to the chair. The bonds on his wrists were not as tight as he would’ve wished, but soon John appeared in the doorway.   
  
“Sherlock?”   
  
Then Sherlock closed his eyes and offered himself, a cock for use. The Alpha chained, if only symbolically.  
  
The heat lasted six hours.   
  


* * *

  
John removed Sherlock’s gag. Then he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and whispered into his ear,   
  
“When I refused to bond with him, the Alpha tied me up and bit me, everywhere but the bond site. I was a grown man. I should have fought him. I did fight him, but not hard enough. The heat, and the fear, made me weak. Afterwards, I pushed the memories to the back of my mind and ignored the signals from my body. Two of the bites became infected, and that infection, left untreated, resulted in my sterility. The army seemed like the ideal fit for more than one reason.”   
  
“There are hundreds of strains of bacteria in the human mouth, John.”  
  
John smiled. The response was so very Sherlock and so very un-Alpha. He freed Sherlock’s wrists, saying   
  
“And that’s why I don’t want to bond-bite, Sherlock.”  
  


* * *

  
Stupid, stupid, stupid!  
  
Sherlock was an idiot. How had he not heard the inflection in John’s voice?  
  
_ And that’s why I don’t want to bond- _ bite _, Sherlock._  
  
It was a puzzle. He needed to think.  
  
“Are you willing to return to Baker Street with me?” asked Sherlock.  
  
John nodded.   
  
Sherlock relaxed. “Good. Shower first.”   
  
Sherlock thought. And thought. And as always, thinking kept his self-loathing and most self-destructive impulses at bay.   
  
When they were finally on the train, with their return journey well underway, he posed the question.   
  
“John, what about bonding without biting?”  
  
John frowned. “You can’t re-wire my biology, Sherlock. Or yours, for that matter. The Alpha bond-bite isn’t as necessary as the Omega, but the mechanics are the same. A tiny gland, below the skin,” John’s hand went to his left shoulder ridge, “punctured during a knotting.”   
  
“Mechanics aside, do you _want_ to bond with me, John?”  
  
Sherlock—and the Alpha—held their collective breath.   
  
Did John want to bond with Sherlock?  Did he want to tie himself irrevocably to this man for the rest of his life?   
  
John thought and thought. He thought of Sherlock’s arrogance and his petulance; of his experiments and his indoor pistol practice and his complete disregard for domestic safety. John thought of his brilliance; of the cases and the deductions; of the chases and the show-downs. He thought of his heats and the patience and tenderness Sherlock had shown in the face of his fears.   
  
Then he thought of the moment when Sherlock had fled the bedroom and how he, John, had followed him, knowing that he would spend his very life to ensure that Sherlock did not take his own.  
  
And finally, finally, John agreed with the Omega.  
  
“Yes.”  


* * *

  
“Bite, John.”  
  
“What?”  
  
John woke and bit and mumbled “That bread is rancid, Sherlock” and went back to sleep.   
  
When John padded downstairs some hours later, Sherlock was sitting, humming, fidgeting in his armchair.   
  
“I figured it out, John.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“How to simulate a bond-bite.”  
  
“In a month? How?”   
  
“Tattoo, well, the same mechanism, same tools. Saliva instead of ink, but the same marks, gland punctured, and voila!”  
  
John blinked. “You want to tattoo me, during a heat, with your saliva?!”   
  
Sherlock shook his head. “First, I want you to tattoo me during a heat with _your_ saliva and, when it works, then…” Sherlock gave a flourish of his hand.  
  
“I don’t know the first thing about tattoos, Sherlock.”  
  
“Consider it a medical procedure, one you have two months to study. Here, I made a mould of your teeth. That’s the pattern I’d like you to use.”  
  
“You’re mad.”   
  
“But?”  
  
John grinned. “I’m in.”   


* * *

  
A few weeks later, John returned home one evening to find Sherlock in his dressing gown, lounging on the sofa, with tattoo apparatus and test tubes and notebooks all about him.   
  
Not a very unusual scene of late, but it became unusual when Sherlock drew one side of the dressing gown aside to reveal his nude form. Then he looked up with bedroom eyes and asked in a low rumble,   
  
“Dress rehearsal?”  
  
John smiled and replied, “Or to be more precise, un-dress rehearsal.”  
  
Sherlock snorted. “Quite.”  


* * *

  
The cottage was dark.  
  
“Oh, wonderful,” said John. “Three months’ preparation for nothing. Winter storm’s knocked out the electricity.”  
  
Sherlock lit a match. “The reason for driving, John, rather than taking the train.”  
  
“The equipment?”  
  
“And a generator.”  
  
The match went out.   
  
“Well, I’ve three boxes of candles. Might actually be romantic.”  
  


* * *

  
The knot formed.  
  
“This is it, Sherlock.”  
  
“Do it.”   
  
They were on the floor.  
  
Their bodies were a tangled mass of limbs, their skin plastered to each other’s with sweat, their joined forms awash in candlelight.   
  
John wiped the spot on Sherlock’s neck for the third time and pressed the needle to his skin.  
  


* * *

  
**_ JOHN! _ **  
  
“Oh, God, Sherlock! I can hear you. Inside me. I’m here.”   
  
**_ It worked! I’m your Alpha! _ **  
  
“Yes, yes, you are, my love. My Alpha.”   
  
Sherlock felt John’s lips brush his temple as the last dribbles of seed left his cock. But then John's milking continued. And grew stronger.  
  
**_ Perhaps… _ **  
  
“Come, my beautiful, brilliant, wholly unconventional Alpha,” said John. “Make me your Omega.”  
  
The Alpha roared. 


	12. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title & Prompt:** Wish  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Fluff, humour, Sherlock/John, Parent!lock  
>  **Summary:** A drabble of Watson-Holmes bedtime story  
>  **Author’s Note:** Inspired by the Jimmy Choo Cinderella Slipper and the song from the 1950 film Cinderella “A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes.”

“…so Prince Cheekbones decided that he would marry none but his true love, the one that fit the slipper, so he ordered the Duke to scour the land…”

“…for someone with a history of military service, nerves of steel, a therapist, and a fairy godmother, because, let’s face it, how else is an ex-Army doctor going to afford a pair of size 10, bespoke, Swarovski crystal-encrusted Jimmy Choo pumps on a war-invalid’s pension?”

“Sherlock! Well, enough story for one night. Sweet dreams, my love. Remember, a dream is a wish that your heart makes.”

“The Prince’s came true.”

“Cinderella’s too.”


	13. Birthday Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Birthday Wish  
>  **Prompt:** Wish  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Content Notes:** Romantic fluff; Sherlock/John; first time; blow job; reference to "The Six Napoleons."  
>  **Summary:** Of truth and lies and birthday wishes

Tap-tap-tap

“Fuck!”

Tap-tap-tap

“Fuck. I hate updating the blog on this bloody phone—“

“Happy Birthday.”

John looked up.

In front of him was a small plate with a fairy cake. One small, thin candle sprouted from a swathe of pale blue icing.

He blinked. “Thank you. How, uh--?”

“From Cheekbones.”

John’s eye drifted in the direction of the barman’s wave, but all the seats at the far end of the bar were vacant. He frowned.

“Happy Birthday, John.”

John jumped.

Sherlock had materialized on the other side of him. He produced a cigarette lighter and lit the candle, saying, “I’m told there’s a traditional carol. “

“Wait, wait. How did you know it was my birthday?”

Sherlock huffed.

“Okay, never mind.” John looked at the cake. “Bit romantic, this.”

“Really? Flatmates don’t wish each other compliments, etc. etc. on the anniversaries of their entrance into the world?”

“They don’t usually do it by sending each other fairy cakes in pubs in the middle of the afternoon and then threatening to sing.”

“I’m also informed that it is customary make a wish as you blow out the candle.”

John looked from Sherlock to the flame. “World peace? Winning lottery numbers?” he mused. Then he closed his eyes and let out a puff of air. “There. Satisfied?”

“Immensely.”

When John looked back, Sherlock was lowering his phone.

“What’s this all about, Sherlock?” John removed the candle, unwrapped the cake, and opened his mouth wide. Then he closed his mouth and eyed the cake suspiciously. “It’s not drugged, is it?”

“No.”

John gave Sherlock a hard stare.

“Lestrade bet me £20.”

“Now that, I believe.”

“An extra tenner if I sang.”

“Ha!” John sank his teeth into the cake. He hummed as he chewed. “Moist,” he mumbled with a smile.

Sherlock’s phone beeped. He looked down. “Speak of the devil…”

John swallowed and wiped his mouth. “…and he texts.”

Sherlock looked up and they spoke in unison,

“Case.”

* * *

“This one is definitely going on the blog!” cried John. “Who would’ve thought of hiding a rare gem in a bust of—“

“I would. Obviously. Do keep up, John.”

They were walking back to Baker Street.

“You were brilliant, Sherlock.”

“You were, um, good, John. With the young girl. She was so upset.”

“Sherlock, you smashed her bust of Zayn Malik into a million pieces.”

“It isn’t like it was Napoleon!”

“Have a bit of empathy! You broke that little girl’s heart!”

“Seeing as how I don’t have one, I can hardly be expected to—“

“Oh, leave off, Sherlock.”

John stopped walking, and after a two strides so did Sherlock. He turned back as John continued talking.

“My birthday wish is for you to dispense with the nonsense for,” John looked at his watch, “the remainder of the day, that is, for the next two hours. That means no ‘I don’t have a heart,’ no ‘not much cop this caring lark,’ no ‘I don’t have friends’ or anything of that sort. A bit of honesty, if you please. You do have a heart and you do care about your friends and your friends care about you, too. Thank you.”

John began walking again.

“A bit of honesty,” repeated Sherlock after two streets.

“Yes,” replied John.

“Your arse looks good in those jeans.”

John didn’t see how his legs were still moving as his brain was definitely not functioning. After three more streets, he stammered, “Excuse me?”  
“Be careful what you wish for, John. Your bit of honesty made come back to bite you in, well, the body part in question.” Sherlock smirked.

“How long have you thought that? About me and, uh, the jeans?”

“How long have you had that arse?”

“Sherlock! I thought relationships weren’t your area.”

“Does the veracity of one statement preclude that of the other?”

They walked the remainder of the distance to Baker Street in silence.

When they passed through the front door, John said, “Just so you know, Sherlock, I think you’re a handsome man.”

“I know.”

Sherlock climbed the stairs. John followed.

“You know?”

“John.”

“Oh, well. Right. We’re just two blokes, sharing a flat, solving crimes, and finding each other attractive, nothing unusual about that. So, happy birthday to me, good night, and see you in the morning.”

When John reached the sitting room, he immediately turned toward the bedroom stairs. Sherlock’s words stopped his retreat.

“What about your birthday wish?”

“I think I got it. In spades! Thank you for your honesty.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Your true birthday wish. I’m not quite sure what constitutes a ‘decent shag’ but would my lips around your cock suffice?”

John stared. He blinked. Then he stared some more. How long the two of the stood frozen in that tableau, John couldn’t say, but when the faculties of speech finally returned, he managed a hoarse,

“How—?”

“John.”

“Sherlock, I don’t want to force you—“

“Do I strike you as someone gives blow jobs by force?”

One single high-pitched nervous giggle erupted from John’s lips. “Is this something we do for birthdays?”

“Perhaps. Mine’s January 6.”

“I’ll mark my calendar,” said John as he made his way slowly toward his armchair.

* * *

It was beautiful, Sherlock nestled between John’s legs. He bobbed and sucked while John gently stroked his hair and murmured, “Christ, you’re gorgeous,” over and over. John felt the tension in his body mount. He looked around, and with a grunt of urgency, yanked his vest over his head.

He patted the back of Sherlock’s head, saying, “I’m there, love.”

The last word came so easily. Too easily.

John came in Sherlock’s mouth and quickly thrust the wadded up shirt at him. “Here.”

Sherlock spit into the fabric. “Thank you,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth. He looked up and asked, “Decent?”

John met his gaze and shook his head.

Sherlock’s eyes widened and then frosted. “Oh, well—“

“Only half-decent,” said John, cupping Sherlock’s jaw and smiling. “The other half is when I take you upstairs—if you’re amenable—and do any and every wicked thing your heart desires.”

Sherlock’s eyes flickered. “My sex slave.”

A shiver went through John. “Christ, yes. If you’re amenable.”

A smile twitched on Sherlock’s lips. “I’m amenable, and we’ve got—. “ His eyes went to the clock on the mantle.

John inserted his head in Sherlock’s line of sight and said softly, “A bit of honesty, please, Sherlock. How long do we have? How long do I have you?” He looked over his shoulder. “Twenty minutes? Until morning? Or—?”

Their eyes met.

“As long as you want me, John.”

“Christ, I was hoping you’d say that!” exclaimed John as he launched himself at Sherlock. He threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed him soundly, sending them both sprawling onto the floor in a tangled heap.

* * *

Sherlock was unbuttoning his shirt. John was propped up against the headboard of the bed.

“Sherlock, if this is real, if this is the beginning of something—“

“It’s already the beginning of something, John. Surely even that could not escape your feeble powers of observation.” Sherlock wrenched the shirt tails from his trousers and let the garment fall to the floor.

“In that case, I have to be honest with you: When I blew out the candle, I didn’t actually wish for a decent shag.”

“I know.”

“You do?!”

Sherlock approached the bed, leaned forward, and kissed John’s lips.

“A bit of honesty, John. I will never, ever tire of your astonishment. Or your accolades.” Then he extended one long arm to the floor and set a wide heavy box on John’s lap.

“It’s going to be very difficult to write up a case about someone named Zayn Malik, however un-Napoleon, when your ‘Z’ and ‘K’ are missing and your entire keyboard is mired in a foul stickiness.”

“Sherlock!”

“It’s for my own sanity, John. Watching you update the blog on that thing you call a laptop has gone from being tedious to downright torturous.”

John smiled. Then his face fell. “If you knew, then why—“

Sherlock looked away. His voice took on a new tone, one unfamiliar to John.

“It seemed like the safest scheme. If you were disgusted or simply uninterested, we could laugh it off as a bit of silliness, Sherlock being, once again, a confused arse, etc. And, as usual, you provided me with the perfect set-up with your early insistence on honesty. I had ample opportunity to ‘prime the pump,’ as it were. And if you just wanted a quick shag, well, there was an easy way out. And I’d still have a nice memory.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John put two fingers under Sherlock’s chin and turned his head. Then he kissed him gently. “You see everything, know everything, how can you be blind about this?”

Sherlock shrugged.

John set the box aside with a ‘thank you’ and drew Sherlock into his arms. “I’m in love with you, you mad, gorgeous beast. And I want you this birthday and the next from here on out and every day in-between.”

Sherlock’s eyes were shining, and before their lips met again, he whispered,

“Happy Birthday, John.”


	14. Shot Through the Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Shot through the Heart  
>  **Prompt:** Shot  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Told backwards (from ending to beginning) Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade (one-sided); voyeurism of a Mycroftian nature; pining Mycroft; cheeky Anthea; references to the 1986 song “You Give Love a Bad Name” by Bon Jovi.  
>  **Summary:** Someone is watching the Scotland Yard Interdivisional Battle of the Air Bands with unusual interest.

Mycroft pressed ‘play.’

  
As the voice in the earphones rang out, he tapped the incline and the speed buttons and set off running at a brisk pace.

  
“ _Shot through the heart and you’re to blame!"_

* * *

“I took the liberty of adding a few selections to your current playlist.”

Mycroft frowned at the device in her hand. “My dear, it is a bit capital ‘P’ in the ‘PA.’ I mean, a man’s music selection is a private affair.”

  
“Stagnation in one’s fitness regime may lead to stagnation in one’s professional realm. Can you or I or the nation afford that?”

  
He rubbed his jaw.

  
“You make a compelling argument. Thank you.”

* * *

Mycroft smiled. He tapped the screen and it went dark. Then he straightened the pages of the document in front of him and took up his pen, humming.

  
“ _Shot through the heart and you’re to blame!”_

* * *

“ _And this year’s winner of the Scotland Yard’s Interdivisional Battle of the Air Bands goes to…Homicide & Serious Crimes!_”

  
The rest of the announcement was drown in raucous cheers.

 

* * *

  
Mycroft held his breath.

  
The Detective Inspector should not take such risks with his safety! Was his work not perilous enough?

  
Oh, the hands were buoying him, and he glided atop the crowd like some clumsy sea creature on the ocean floor.

  
Mycroft swore. Should they drop him, an unforgiving interdepartmental re-organization would be imminent.

  
He leaned closer to the screen.

Hands. Touching leather. Touch skin wet with perspiration. Touching…

Mycroft rose from his desk.

Tea time.

* * *

The Detective Inspector had a very pleasing sense of rhythm.

He was also, unsurprisingly, a natural leader and, perhaps a bit surprisingly, a born showman as well. He and Sargent Donovan appear to be well-versed in their choreography. A judicious choice to place the unfortunate Anderson in the percussion section, where his particular brand of enthusiasm would be better shielded from the judges’ eyes.

  
And, of course, the wardrobe selection was inspired. Mycroft had never before considered himself a fan of fringe but when coupled with a swaying posterior, like the one he was viewing, well, the allure was undeniable.

  
_“No one can save me. The damage is done!”_

Indeed.

* * *

Mycroft closed his mouth.

_“Shot through the heart and you’re to blame!”_

Was the Detective Inspector wearing _black leather trousers_?

Good Lord.

* * *

“Sir.”

He looked up as she slipped him a scrap of paper.

#18!

She shut the door behind her as she exited.

The green ink meant personal, not professional, but the two-digit number meant not 221B or his own residence or any of the usual locations of interest to him.

A public feed.

The exclamation point was pure cheek.

Infernal woman! What was she playing at? There was work to be done tonight!

He scowled and tapped a screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going forward, shorter fics written for fan_flashworks prompts will go here and longer fics will be posted as stand-alone stories. So this will still be a kind of thrift store (where you have to rummage around to find something you like) but more like a 'Everything is 1000 Words or Less' kind of thrift store.


	15. The Wall Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** The Wall Speaks  
>  **Prompt:** Hit the Wall  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** POV Inanimate Object  
>  **Summary:** The wall of 221B compares then and now.

Walls don’t normally speak. We’re a reticent sort. We may, on occasion, crumble or fall, but for the most part, we stand.

I stand.

I _with_ stand.

I am the wall of 221B Baker Street, residence of one Mister Sherlock Holmes since 1881.

Much has changed at 221B. The paper and the paint. The furniture, too. The heat and the light have kept up with the times, of course, but…

But many things are still the same.

Day-break on a spring morn can still cast a lovely glow on the room as it filters through the windows, that is, when no one remembers to draw the curtains. Which is often. Then and now. Even with housekeepers and landladies, confirmed bachelors are as they’ve ever been.

And Mister Henry Ward Beecher still stares at me from across the room.

And I stand. And _with_ stand. Not just the passage of years, but attacks, from within and without. The chronic scourge of tobacco smoke has, thankfully, become a thing of the past, as has the yellow fog, ostensibly a plague of my exterior brethren in days long ago, but one that often and perniciously oozed into my domain. So, yes, some things are gone.

But explosions, noxious fumes, and shooting flames, are here to stay.

And the villains!

Why only last week a swordfight left a nasty jab in me!

Still hurts.

But the worst of the lot is the direct assault.

Mister Sherlock Holmes and his revolver, pistol, model and make don’t really matter when it’s you the bullets are hitting.

Victoria Regina, indeed.

Smiling faces. Not mine!

Oh, were that I could fall, could crumble of my own accord in those moments! I would do so, just to show Mister Sherlock Holmes that his particular brand of diversion is _not_ appreciated.

Not then, not now.

Tempers flare at 221B. Always have.

But just when I’ve reached the end of my limit, when my very plaster is shaking with outrage—and not just from homemade incendiary devices, oh yes, we have those, too!—there will come the most beautiful strains from a violin.

And then there is laughter and celebrations and the cleverest puzzle solving that anyone, or any _thing_ , has ever seen.

And so I stand.

And _with_ stand.

Tests.

And tests of time.


	16. Into a Bar (Vampire Sherlock & Werewolf John, first meeting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Into a bar  
>  **Prompt:** Wolf  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** AU; Vampire!Sherlock; Werewolf!Barman!John, Demi-Goblin!Lestrade, Alternate First Meeting; Alternate 'A Study in Pink', mentions of suicide/murder; reference to the 1978 Warren Zevon song "Werewolves of London."  
>  **Summary:** A vampire walks into a lycan bar and orders a 'Death in the Afternoon.'

John set the dry glass upside down on a square of cloth and strode toward the stranger at the end of the bar. He took a deep breath, then said in a low voice,

“Someone like you in a place like this? You’ve got stones, pal. Or a death wish.”

“I’ve got both, actually,” replied the stranger. “But that’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for someone.”

“No one here will talk to you.”

“ _You’re_ talking to me.”

“I’m the barman. It’s my job. Order a drink.”

“I’ll have a ‘Death in the Afternoon.’”

John laughed. “Walk into a lycan bar and order a nightwalker drink? You _have_ got stones. Big ones. But we don’t stock absinthe or champagne. You’ll have pint and pretend to watch the game,” he gestured to the screens above him, “or I’ll let some of the regulars get within a foot of you and they’ll realise, like I did, that it’s the ugly jumper and jeans that smell like wolf and not the ice lolly in them.”

The stranger’s lips twitched in the precursor to a smile. “I’ve been called many things, but never that. And _you_ ’re wearing a jumper like this.”

“Yeah, but I _like_ ugly jumpers. I’m betting you’re used to Saville Row. One pint, coming up.”

* * *

John set the beer on the bar and turned his back to the stranger. He looked up at the screen. “Go, go, go!” he yelled. “Yeah!” He clapped as the pub erupted into cheers, then said under his breath, “That goal bought you two minutes, mate.”

“James Philimore.”

“Is dead. Suicide. Too bad.”

“His friend Gary still come in here? Ugh! This stuff tastes like piss. _Is_ it piss?”

John laughed. “Yeah, but it’ll make you smell more like us. To answer your question, no, Gary doesn’t come around anymore.”

“He’s not looking for a new mate?”

John turned and growled. “We mate for life!”

The stranger smiled. “So they _were_ mates? That isn’t Gary what told the police, and there _would_ be ways of verifying.” He tapped his fingers to his lips.

“Some of us can pass easier than others. Jimmy was just a pup, really. Why are you asking questions about a lycan suicide? Our lot kill themselves all the time.”

“I don’t think it was suicide. I think it’s linked to the deaths of Beth Davenport and Sir Jeffery Patterson. They’re your lot, too, aren’t they?”

“You need to get out of here, mate.”

“Don’t you want to find out who’s killing the werewolves of London?”

“Why don’t you try Lee Ho Fooks?”

The stranger blinked.

John shrugged. “Just an old lycan joke my gran used to tell.”

The stranger frowned. “Your grandmother used to joke about lycan murders?”

John shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Listen, I know that you’re a doctor and a soldier, I know that you were invalided in Afghanistan, or maybe Iraq, I know that some of your wounds are real, some are psychosomatic, and that you really should fire your therapist. What else do I need to say to convince you that this isn’t an old joke, that _I_ am not a joke? As I said, you’re a soldier, a doctor, and I bet a crack-shot, too, when that hand doesn’t shake. You’re bloody _wired_ to help, and _I need an assistant!_ ”

“How did you know all that? Who are you?”

“Your tattoos, your tan lines, the cane in the corner that you don’t use, your hands, your haircut, the way you hold yourself, the way you pull a pint, a thousand different things, they all connect in my brain to form a picture. My name is—“

“SHERLOCK!”

Every head in the pub turned toward the door. Glasses hit tables, and a menacing growl rumbled.

The newcomer held a badge above his head, displaying it for all to see. “Sit, fidos! Police!”

The stranger quickly opened his wallet and slapped a few notes on the bar. “My card is under the money. If you want to help ….”

“All right, Sherlock.” Then the stranger was being grabbed by the hair and yanked off the barstool to the snickers and chuckles of all watching. “Come on, before you get us both killed.”

“Lestrade, you’re such a troll!”

John’s ears pricked, deciphering the mumbling that followed. “Listen, you posh mosquito, for the last time, I’m a goblin, not a troll or a dwarf or whatever other lower creature your mind can conjure. And only half-goblin. It’s the goblin half that’s going to haul your scrawny arse out of here and the man half that’s going to take you to Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“Another suicide? Something’s different this time.”

“Yeah, this one left a note.”

As he was dragged out the door, the stranger looked at John, his eyes pleading, mouth moving silently.

John read his lips.

‘Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.’


	17. The Long Way Back (Genderswap, Sherlock/John, omegaverse werewolves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** The Long Way Back  
>  **Prompt:** Wolf  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content Notes:** Hurt/Comfort. AU. Genderswapped/cisswapped everybody. Omegaverse. fem!Alpha!Sherlock/fem!Omega!John. Sherlock, John, and Mycroft are werewolves. Stamford is a lycanthropy expert. Set during 'A Study in Pink.'  
>  **Summary:** John is a newly-turned Omega werewolf and Sherlock a rare female Alpha werewolf.

“Doctor Stamford. To what do I owe the honour?”

“Good evening, Mycroft. Earlier today I introduced an old friend of mine to Sherlock.”

“And?”

“They seemed to hit it off. Sherlock invited her to share digs together. A Baker Street flat.”

“Interesting, but hardly worth a phone call at this hour.”

“My friend is a doctor. We were at Barts together. Her name’s Watson, Johanna, goes by ‘John.’”

“Doctor Stamford, with all due respect, I do wish you would arrive at your point. I’m a busy woman.”

“She’s also ex-Army, recently invalided from Afghanistan. Maiwand.”

Mycroft drew in a sharp breath, then began typing furiously. “You think that she is…?”

“Highly relevant to my clinical interest? I suspect so. I did not broach the subject with her directly, however.”

“Why don’t I know about her?” Mycroft _click-click-click_ ed. “I know all the lycans produced in combat.” Her eyes flitted about the computer screen. “I don’t know about her because the Army, in its infinite wisdom, did not expect her to survive. Reading between the lines, it was their expectation—or perhaps their hope, if we are being _very_ cynical—that she would die from her wounds or commit suicide when she learned what she’d become as a result of them.”

“She’s very much alive, though walks with a cane. I believe there’s some damage to one arm as well, shoulder and, perhaps, hand. If we’re to believe Sherlock, at least some of her limitations are psychosomatic, so there’s definitely mental trauma. Physically…”

“She’d be an Omega.”

“All records of turned lycans designated female at human birth would indicate so, though, there’s always room for an anomaly.”

Mycroft smiled. “Or two. Do you think Sherlock recognised what she was?”

“I’m certain of it.”

Mycroft nodded. “And she, Sherlock?”

“Of that, I’m less sure. She probably sensed something, but she may not be able to put the sensation into context. I shudder to think what the Army told her about her condition, and I daresay she hasn’t had enough time to fully understand the signals that her body is sending.”

“It does take a considerable amount of time to process everything, even with the best of guides, and you, Doctor, are the best of guides.”

“You flatter me.”

“I flatter no one.” Mycroft paused. “You will see her?”

“Absolutely. And she will need a place to spend the 28th.”

“The Holmes estate is at her disposal, but I wonder if Sherlock might extend the invitation.”

“Hospitality is not her strongest suit.”

Mycroft snorted. “True. I will be following this development closely. An Omega, an actual lycan Omega, who is not repulsed by Sherlock? It can scarcely be believed.”

“More than anything, John seemed intrigued by Sherlock. And the feeling was definitely reciprocated.”

Mycroft sighed. “Thank you very much for calling, Doctor.”

“My pleasure.”

* * *

“It wasn’t a silver bullet, was it?” asked Sherlock. “What you sent through Jefferson Hope.”

“No.” John snorted. “I may be an idiot, but I’m not stupid. “ She picked at her fried rice. “So you are what I am?”

“Yes, but by birth.”

John looked up with eyebrows raised.

“My family has been lycan for as long as werewolves have occupied England.”

“Mycroft, too?”

Sherlock nodded.

“She looks a bit.” John screwed up her face.

Sherlock snorted. “She _is_ a bit.” Sherlock imitated John’s expression.

John smiled and leaned back in her chair. She put her hands behind her head and said, “My reaction: relief. I finally meet someone who can clue me into the practical aspects of this life!”

“I know a lot, but Stamford can give you a more objective, complete view.”

“Stamford?!”

“She’s one of the foremost experts on lycanthropy in the world. There isn’t much she doesn’t know. Stamfords have been tending to the wellbeing of Holmeses—and other noble werewolf families—for generations.”

“She did look a bit funny at me. I guess my secret was no secret to either of you.”

“No. And speaking of practical matters, you’re welcome to pass the 28th at the Holmes estate. The house is modest, but lands surrounding it are vast. Wooded forests, rolling hills, well-insulated caves. Uninhabited. Good hunting. Deer, rabbit.”

“Sounds ideal. The Army put me in a cage.”

Sherlock scowled. “No cages, John. Never.”

“More relief. Is that where you spend your full moons, the country?”

“In the past. These days I usually stay in the city.”

John’s eyes widened as she flew forward in her chair. “In the flat?”

“I roam.” John began to chuckle. Sherlock smiled and added, “I even went on the tube once.”

John laughed out loud. “You’re kidding!”

Sherlock shook her head, grinning and looking down at her untouched plate. “Mycroft had to have it erased from CCTV. I sent a dozen people to hospital for hallucinations and shock.”

John howled. “Oh, I’m sorry for them, but I have to laugh. I’m so tired of raging, of crying, of wishing things were different. Laughing seems the only sane response left.”

Sherlock smiled, then her face fell. “You mightn’t wish to spend the full moon with me when you hear the whole truth. Mycroft and I come from a long patriarch line of Alpha wolves. That designation did not vary this generation with the lack of male heirs.”

John frowned. “I thought…”

“We are exceptions. And to answer your next question,” she said quickly, “I do have the necessary genitalia. I don’t just sprout a cock once a month!”

John chewed. Then she smiled. “What’s between your legs is your business, Sherlock, but, uh…” Her smile became a laugh hidden behind her hand. “…would be pretty awkward,” she said between snorts. “Growing a knob each month. Nothing like a tail, of course.”

Sherlock stared at her, then smiled, then joined in with a soft chuckle. “When you put it like that, I guess it is only highly improbable…”

“Alphas and Omegas don’t pass the moon together?” asked John

“They do, but, um, there might be unwanted behaviour brought on by instincts, pheromones.”

“Oh.” John looked down at her food, then said, “Is there any foreplay or do we just go at it like animals?” She looked up, grinning.

Sherlock laughed. “If memory serves me correctly, it’s the latter.”

“And you won’t be able to control yourself? Or I won’t?”

“It’s been so long since I’ve come across an unbonded Omega during a full moon, I can’t really say with certainty what my reaction will be, but it could be unpleasant.”

“Well, that’s fair. Do you really lose yourself that much?”

“I don’t, as a rule. But, as I said, this is a novel scenario, and I would not want to add to your trauma by placing you in an untenable situation.”

“For now, I’ll say ‘I’ll take my chances,’ but I reserve the right to change my mind before the month is up.”

Sherlock nodded.

John frowned. “Wait, you said ‘unbonded.’”

“Yes, there’s mating and then there’s bonding.”

“Bonding is putting a ring on it.”

Sherlock smiled. “Something like that, but it involves the Alpha biting the Omega during mating.” She brushed a spot on the slope of her neck. “Here.”

“Does the Alpha get bit?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t seem right.”

“No, it doesn’t, does it? And werewolves mate for life.”

“Ah.”

“So not something to be entered into lightly.”

“No, not like,” John pushed back from table, “oh, shooting someone who’s trying to force your potential flatmate to commit suicide the day after you meet.”

Sherlock laughed. “No, not like that at all. This is serious, John!” She bit her lip. “So, um, will you take the room upstairs?”

“Yes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled. Then she picked up her fork and began to eat.

* * *

John woke to warmth. She stirred and found herself swaddled in a large heavy blanket.

“So?”

The word made one puff of breath against John’s neck. It was a low, husky noise.

John exhaled loudly. “Wonderful. The exact way I imagined spending a full moon. Running. Howling. Hunting. Wind in your fur, soft ground under your paws. The change was still painful, of course, but much less than my previous shifts. Thank you for the recommendation of the herbs. I had Army-prescribed muscle relaxants and pain-killers, but I am glad I didn’t take them. I’d have missed out on a fabulous night if I had been in a doped fog.”

“The shift may never be comfortable, but with time, the pain should ease. I’m glad you enjoyed it. I did, too.”

“And we did not succumb to our primal urges, well, not completely. There was a tremendous amount of licking.”

Sherlock snorted. “Scenting is common for wolves, and with wolves new to each other, it may be prolonged, although perhaps we were a bit enthusiastic.”

John rolled on her back and realised that they were nestled together in a pile of blankets. She looked up into Sherlock’s face. “Cave’s interesting.”

“Yes, and a good place to store our supplies. No need to go as far as the house once the moon sets.”

John stared up at Sherlock, unabashedly studying her face.

Finally, it was Sherlock who broke the silence. “There’s no urgency, on my part. I’ve no case pending. No experiments, either,” she said softly.

“Have a lie-in?”

Sherlock hummed. “Never saw the appeal before. Body’s just transport, slightly deviant, occasionally furry, transport, but…”

John wriggled.

Sherlock’s lips twitch in a half-smile. “An hour or so more couldn’t hurt. There’s a mid-day train.”

John cupped Sherlock’s cheek and drew her face close. “Sherlock, tell me the truth: is this pheromones?”

“Pheromones faded with the tails,” replied Sherlock.

“This urge I have to turn and present myself for mounting…”

“…matches mine to mount you. Over and over,” breathed Sherlock before pressing her lips to John’s.

* * *

“Thank you for the loan of the boots.”

“Not a problem, Doctor. Country mud is no match for city footwear. Let’s see. I think that is the cave over there.”

They both stopped at the noises.

“Oh my,” said Stamford. “That is not the sound of _lycan_ mating.”

“At half past ten in the morning, hardly. Well,” Mycroft took a deep breath and surveyed the landscape. “I suppose your data gathering can wait a while.”

“Indeed.”

“Tea at the house?”

“Sounds like an excellent plan. Perhaps we should…”

“Take the long way back, yes.”


	18. The White Moss Rose and the Dog-Rose (Sherlock/John. H/C.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** The White Moss Rose and the Dog-rose  
>  **Prompt:** Rose  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content Notes:** 221B; Sherlock/John, hurt/comfort; implied self-bondage  & masturbation; reference to Wilkie Collins' _The Moonstone_.  
>  **Summary:** John discovers Sherlock's secret and confesses his own.  
>  **Author's Note:** Greenaway's [Language of Flowers](https://archive.org/details/languageofflower00gree) gives the meaning 'confession of love' for the moss rosebud and 'pleasure and pain' for the dog-rose. Tribute to the classic [An Unexpected Encounter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/236003) by sommersprosen.

John stumbled up the hallway.   
  
“Terrorist attack in Athens. Flights cancelled. Rescheduled for tomorrow. So sorry.” He forced himself to look at Sherlock. “Tea?”   
  
Sherlock nodded and tied the dressing gown sash.   
  


* * *

  
“When relationships are not one’s area, one learns to take care of one’s own needs.”   
  
“It’s all fine, Sherlock.”   
  
“It’s aberrant. Pathetic. Repulsive. Who needs to truss themselves up like a Christmas goose to get off?”   
  
“I know your secret, well, here’s mine—no doubt you’ve already deduced it—I love you. Want you. The whole lot.”   
  
“I did not know,” whispered Sherlock.   
  
“Good. We’re even.”   
  


* * *

  
Finally, Sherlock said, “ _ The Moonstone _ . Wilkie Collins.”   
  
“We’ve got a copy.”   
  
“Sergeant Cuff and the gardener argue about whether the white moss rose should be budded on the dog-rose. Victorian language of flowers. Dog-rose means ‘pleasure and pain.’ The moss rosebud means ‘confession of love.’”   
  
John retrieved the book from the bookcase. “Five days apart is time enough to figure out what we want. But hear me, Sherlock.” Sherlock looked up. “Even knowing what I know, even knowing what you know, I don’t want to leave 221B or you, and if you ever require an assistant with,” he waved towards the hallway, “I’m your man.”   
  
Sherlock’s gaze fell. “Relationships aren’t my area.”   
  


* * *

  
As John exited, he spotted Sherlock, waiting, with a two-rose bouquet. 


	19. Whistling in the Nave. (Nun Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Whistling in the Nave  
>  **Prompt:** Whistle  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content Notes/Warnngs:** Humor; AU; Fem!Sherlock; Fem!John, Sherlock/John; Mycroft/Lestrade; Sherlock  & John are nuns; Mycroft is a priest; Lestrade is a sheriff; blasphemy & sacrilegious use of religious artifacts and ceremonies  
>  **Summary:** Sister Scholastica goes to confession.  
>  **Author's Note:** Also for the LJ 1_million_word number challenge '86'

“Bless me, Father Supsalot, for I have sinned.”   
  
“Sister Scholastica, it’s been far, far too short since your last confession.”   
  
“My sins number exactly one hundred. The first, I set fire to a set of priestly vestments—“    
  
“Mine!”    
  
“They  _ were _ getting rather snug.”   
  
“Sher—Sister Scholastica! Oh, for God’s sake—“   
  
“Yes, I believe that is the family business, so to speak.”   
  
“—go on!”   
  
“The second is when my brother was being very tiresome, I did not turn the other cheek as our Lord instructed but rather, borrowing from another illustrative parable, turned his wine into ovine urine.”   
  
“SHERLOCK!”

* * *

“…so then I curled my finger slightly to the left and put my mouth—“   
  
“Stop! I am not interested in the details of your carnal relations with Sister John.”   
  
“Really? I thought you might find them illuminating, didactic even, for when Sherriff Lestrade comes to call, say, if another headless corpse surfaces in the baptismal font. Oh, wait, no, _ I _ solved that one, didn’t I? No need for him at all, really.”    
  
“Sherriff Lestrade and I are not fornicating!”   
  
“Oh. Hasn’t gotten past the afternoon reverie-wistful glances stage? Well, perhaps if you—“    
  
“Stop! It is already highly irregular for me to hear your confession and if there were a confessor within four-day journey willing to listen to your litany of deviances, I would send for them at once. And pay them a king’s ransom to remain here until your dying day!”   
  
“That day has come and gone, Brother Mine. Father Moriarty—“   
  
“Your being put to death as a witch was unfortunate, yes, but it did afford me three mercifully peaceful years!”   
  
“I believe that I have finally won John’s forgiveness for my lengthy deception in the manner that I was explaining. My eighty-sixth sin is eliciting the most obscene utterances from an ostensibly-mute Bride of Christ—“   
  
“Sherlock, what is the hundredth sin?”   
  
“Whistling in the nave.”   
  
“One hundred ‘Hail Mary’s. You’re absolved. Good day!”


	20. Egged (Sherlock/John. Window washer AU.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Egged  
>  **Prompt:** Egg  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Sherlock/John; Alternate First Meeting; Humor; Crack, AU.  
>  **Summary:** When 221 Baker Street is egged, Mrs. Hudson hires the "Men in Kilts" cleaning service. Window washer John meets new tenant Sherlock.  
>  **Author Notes:** One [Men in Kilts](http://www.countryliving.com/home-maintenance/cleaning/a38195/men-in-kilts-cleaning-franchise/) franchise owner is quoted as saying "Athletes and veterans are the primary guys I go for" and thus a fic was born.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

“Here, Sherlock!”

“It was child’s play—“

“Mind the ladder, dear.”

Sherlock’s gaze followed hers.

“Martha! Just saw the van. ‘Men in Kilts’?”

“Mind the ladder, Marie.”

“Oh my! Makes getting egg on your home seem not such a nuisance.”

“Indeed. Tea, Marie?”

“Yes, he’s going to be a while, isn’t he?”

“Hope so. Sherlock?”

“No tea for me, thanks.”

“No, what were you saying?”

“Oh, it was child’s play, literally, finding the vandals. I notified the authorities, plus schoolmasters, mothers, grandmothers, etcetera.”

“Thank you.”

“There’s something about a man in…”

“Marie.”

“…and you were right to hire a service. It’s not safe for you to be up there, stretching, with your muscles straining—“

“Must unpack. Good day, ladies.”

* * *

Sherlock stuck his head out the window.

“Hello. Be careful. Just finished that one.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?!”

“Oh, um. Afghanistan. My name is John W—“

“Watson. That kilt isn’t a uniform. It’s yours. First day?”

“Filling in for a friend. Stamford’s hung a bit loose.”

“Mike Stamford?”

“Yeah, we were at Barts together.”

“Are you the friend who’s looking for a flatshare?”

“Yeah!”

“Like this one?”

John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Could be very nice.”

Sherlock’s gaze wandered from John’s arms to his calves.

“Hope you feel about the violin the same way I feel about the bagpipes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want more? The explicit-rated follow-up is [Scotch](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6604225/chapters/16498630).


	21. Eggs (John writes Omegaverse. Crack. Humor.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Eggs  
>  **Prompt: Egg**  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** Metafic, John writes fanfic, AU, fluff, crack.  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock interrupts while John is trying to decide what kind of eggs his fictional characters, Surecock Bones and Doctor Wantsome, have for breakfast.

_Scrambled. Fluffy. Yellow-white. Leaning forward. Offering. Accepting. Feeding. Lips closing around fork._

_Yes, scrambled._

_Or maybe sunny side-up? Bright yellow yolks surrounded by white. Sliding onto a plate._

_Or maybe—_

“John.”

“ARGH!”

John started so violently that for a moment his entire body lost contact with the armchair. His laptop made an ominous _clunk-clunk_ as it tumbled to the floor. “You said you were going to the lab!” he cried.

Sherlock plopped down in his armchair and crossed his legs. “I did. Five hours ago.”

John glanced at his watch, then murmured, “Jesus Christ.”

“That’s not the one about the aluminum crutch,” said Sherlock, nodding at fallen laptop.

John scooped the computer up and hugged it to his chest. “There’s been a bit of lull in cases so I branched out, into transformative works.”

“With a character named Surecock Bones whatever could you be transforming?”

“It’s fiction!”

“Obviously. So, pray tell, what scintillating plot point regarding Mister Bones and his companion, Doctor…?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Wantsome,” John supplied.

“Really, John? Okay, what has you so stymied about this cleverly named duo?”

“You mean you can’t deduce it?!” snapped John.

“Bricks and clay, John,” said Sherlock gently, his arms open in a gesture of mock surrender. “Please.”

John eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well if you must know, the particular genre I am working in is called PWP. The last two letters stand for ‘without plot’ or ‘what plot?’—“

“And the first?”

“There are two schools of thought.” John pressed his lips together.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “So what non-plot point has you so enthralled that you miss the passing of an entire morning and my not-very-silent, not-very-pleasant-smelling arrival?”

John started again when he realised that Sherlock must have just showered as his hair was still slightly damp. And he’d thought he’d been alone in the flat! Stunned, he blurted out the truth.

“It’s about eggs.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched. He motioned for John to continue.

“I’m trying to decide what kind of eggs they have for breakfast.”

“Is it important?”

“Not really. Although you never know. It might end up representing something else, something pithier.”

“Of course,” said Sherlock dryly.

“If you’re just going to mock, then delete it!” John rose. “Not all of us elect to use our spare time diddling eyeballs or livers!”

“Speaking of which,” said Sherlock, “why don’t we do an experiment? We have eggs. And I’ve worked up a ravenous appetite at the lab. Why I could exterminate at least four!”

John studied his face for signs of ridicule, but finding none, conceded.

* * *

 

“Must it be eggs, John? Not, say, just tea and toast.”

“No. They’ve spent all night having vigorous sexual intercourse, so heartier fare is required.”

“Ah, yes. Protein.”

“Exactly. Of course, everyone makes scrambled eggs differently. Mine may be too dry. Here.” He pushed the yellow-white mass onto a plate. Then he placed the plate and two forks before Sherlock. “The nice thing about scrambled eggs is that you can do this.” He offered Sherlock a forkful. Sherlock leaned forward and ate. “See? Intimate. Romantic. And they’re simple. Even Doctor Wantsome could make them.”

Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “Does Mister Bones return the favour?”

John’s eyes drifted, but his hand continued to offer bit after bit of egg to Sherlock as he spoke. “He’s the Alpha, so probably not.”

“And Doctor Wantsome is a…beta?”

John laughed. “No, no. Doctor Wantsome is an Omega. They live in an alternate universe of secondary genders. Tea?”

Sherlock hummed.

“Omegas and Alphas give off pheromones that attract one another. Omegas go into heat, and they mate with Alphas. Sunny side- up.”

“Interesting way of mating.”

“No. That’s the other way of eggs I was considering.” John washed and dried the pan. “Want some more?”

“Absolutely.”

* * *

“See? So pretty.” John slid the pair of eggs onto Sherlock’s plate. “The drawback is,” John cut across one egg; the yolk oozed.

“Not as pretty,” said Sherlock.

“No. And now you need toast to sop up the runny bit. Toast?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“But you aren’t writing a script, John, no matter how vivid and appealing you wish your descriptions to be.”

“True.”

“So Doctor Wantsome goes into heat?”

“Yes, his heat suppressant fail. Exceedingly common occurrence in this universe. Here’s your toast.”

“Thank you.”

“And they have pheromone-fuelled sex all night and then there’s the morning after and the big question: should they bond? Dum-dum-DUM!”

“Which they decide over eggs.”

“Yes. Poached isn’t right. Neither are hard-boiled or soft-boiled.”

“No?”

“The cracking.” John made a tapping motion with his spoon. “And the oozing. They’ve had quite enough oozing. Omegas have self-lubricating orifices.”

“Indeed. A frittata would be…”

“Pretentious. And not something Doctor Wantsome would be able to make.”

“But an omelette?”

John’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open for a moment. “Yes! We have three eggs left. And some mushrooms.” He turned back toward the refrigerator. “And a bit of spinach. And some tomatoes.”

“Those aren’t tomatoes.”

“No tomatoes. Okay, I think this might be perfect.” He began rooting about in the fridge.

“So bonding?” asked Sherlock.

“Involves the Alpha biting the Omega on the neck during heat.”

“Does the Alpha get bitten?”

“Rarely.”

“John.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s problematic, to say the least.”

* * *

“This is it. They decide to bond over an omelette,” said John as he fed Sherlock the last mouthful. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Doubtful that anyone actually reads your imaginings, John.” Sherlock’s voice was much softer than his words.

“Well, there you’re wrong,” said John as he dropped plates and cutlery in the sink. “My story has two subscribers! That means there are two souls out there,” he gestured to the sitting room windows, “who want to see what happens to my pair.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

John grabbed his laptop and headed for the stairs. “Find us a case, then! I’m off to finish the chapter.”

* * *

“Post a new chapter? Why, yes, I think I do want to post a new chapter! There!”

“John! Case!”

“Just in time!”

* * *

**OmegaingMeCrazy** left the following comment on **_Play Me Like a Stradivarius_**.

_OMG! So hot! I’ll be in my bunk ;) Love the bit about the omelette! Subscribed!_

John smiled at his phone.

_Three!_


	22. Dung Beetles (Sherlock/John. Fluff.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Dung Beetles  
>  **Prompt:** Dancing  
>  **Rating:** Gen  
>  **Content Notes:** fluff, Sherlock/John  
>  **Summary:** A chase takes a romantic turn.

“Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights.”   
  
Sherlock raised his head and spied the man unlocking the door to the building. “Alternate route!” he cried as he pushed the man out of the way and hurried up the stairs. “Come on, John!”   
  
John ran after him. “Why do I think I’ve done this before? Oh, yeah, because I have. The day we met.”   
  
“Second day,” corrected Sherlock as they climbed the metal fire escape ladder to the roof. “And not here, exactly, some ten kilometres from here.”    
  
“What?” panted John when he caught up with Sherlock atop the roof.    
  
He was frozen in place, eyes pinched shut, hands out, head jerking, brow furrowed.    
  
“This way? Or maybe that way?” he mumbled.   
  
“Are you—Sherlock Holmes, the walking GPS—lost?” cried John. “Oh, this is unbelievable!”   
  
Sherlock broke his pose to glare at John. “I’m not lost! It’s definitely—“   
  
John looked up at the night’s sky and sighed. “You know there are dung beetles smarter than you are, Mister Proper Genius.”   
  
“Is that so, Doctor?” snapped Sherlock.   
  
“It is. Dung beetles roll their balls in straight paths away from the pile using the stars for orientation. And not just one star, they require the whole Milky Way. They take a mental snapshot of the sky and use it to navigate. Only insect to do so.”   
  
“Nature programme?”   
  
“Yeah. Telly. Last night.”   
  
“How unfortunate for you that you’re with me and not some scarab.”   
  
“Well, if I was with a dung beetle, I’d be dancing on a ball of shit. So there’s that.” John pursed his lips, then grinned.   
  
Their eyes locked, then both erupted into fits of snorts and giggles.     
  
Sherlock cleared his throat and turned his eyes skyward. “It  _ is  _ beautiful.”   
  
“I thought you didn’t care about—“   
  
“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” Sherlock fished his mobile out of his pocket.    
  
“Finding us a way out of here?”   
  
Sherlock shook his head. “How about a dance?” He dropped his phone back in his pocket as a voice crooned.    
  
_ Embrace me my sweet embraceable you. _  
  
John folded into Sherlock’s arms. “Not that I’m complaining, but I thought we were chasing bad guys.”   
  
Sherlock sniffed. “Later. You surprised me, you and your dung beetles. You still surprise me after all this time. That’s worth a dance beneath the stars, no?”   
  
“You know you are the most romantic, astronomically-challenged git in the universe?”   
  
Sherlock smiled.  
  
_Embrace me my irreplaceable you._  
  
They swayed together as the music swelled.    
  
_ Just to look at you my heart grows tipsy in me. _  
  
John brushed his nose against dark wool. “I’m never lost when I’m with you, Sherlock. North star, Milky Way, sun, moon, the whole lot, right here in a very nice coat.”    
  
“It  _ is _ a nice coat,” agreed Sherlock. Then he kissed the top of John’s head and began to hum in a baritone rumble.    
  
_ You and you alone bring out the gypsy in me _ .   
  
They danced on, and when the final strains of the song faded, Sherlock dipped John low and whispered,   
  
“Come to me do, my sweet embraceable you.”


	23. The Way You Look Tonight (Genderswapped Sherlock/John. Shapeshifting!cat!Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** The Way You Look Tonight  
>  **Prompt:** Transformation  
>  **Rating:** Mature  
>  **Content Notes/Warnings:** Gender/cisswap, Sherlock/John, hurt/comfort, masturbation, pining John, shape shifting witch Sherlock  
>  **Summary:** John confides in a stray cat that looks, well, familiar.

John woke with a start. She listened, then sighed and burrowed deeper under the covers.   
  
For once, the storm was outside her.   
  
She listened some more.   
  
At a loud crack of thunder, she poked her head out. For a moment, lightning illuminated the world outside, and she realised that it wasn’t the rain making an odd-shaped silhouette on the window pane.   
  
There was actually something there.   
  
More thunder.   
  
The dark mass howled.   
  
“I’m probably going to regret this,” John muttered as she threw off the covers. Standing on a chair, she cracked the window. A wet lump scurried inside.   
  
“Got caught in the storm, eh? Well, you don’t look rabid.”   
  
It padded to the dresser, sat, then lifted two front legs and scratched at the wood.   
  
“Aren’t you clever?” said John with a grin as she pulled open the drawer and drew out a towel. “If you don’t scratch or bite, I’ll dry you off, yeah?”   
  
After a few minutes of rubbing, the black fur took on a more recognisable shape.   
  
“Oh, you’re a cat!”

  
The cat stared, almost disdainfully, John thought, then blinked and turned as if to stalk away.   
  
“Now don’t be like that. I was just teasing. I know someone with grey eyes almost as pretty as your silver ones. She might be caught in the storm, too, but more likely she’s too absorbed in a cadaver or experiment to even know there _is_ a storm. And she looks at me just like that. Like I’m beneath her.” John glanced over her shoulder at the rumpled bedclothes. “You know what? I’m not going back to sleep. Hungry?”   
  
The cat meowed.   
  
John shivered. “Bit cold. How about a fire and then we’ll see what the kitchen holds in the way of feline fancies? But fair warning:  one, there might not be much, and two, when her Grey-Eyed Majesty returns, I don’t know what your fate will be. She might put you out, storm or no storm.”   
  
The cat gave John a haughty look.   
  
“Yeah, frankly, I’d like to see her try, too,” said John with a chuckle as she tied the belt of her bathrobe.   
  
\---   
  
“Ah ha!” exclaimed John triumphantly. “One dusty tin of herring. Why it’s here I can’t fathom unless it was some forgotten experiment of Sherlock’s. And,” she opened the refrigerator, “milk. Ugh! Scratch that, no milk. Ah, what’s this? Cream, real cream? No! Yes! Holy fuck, my furry friend. It _is_ your lucky night.”   
  
The cat settled before the fire.   
  
\---   
  
“Had your fill?” said John, collecting a pair of saucers from the floor. “You ate well. Much better than Sherlock.” She strode into the kitchen and dropped the saucers in the sink. “Fire’s nice, no? I think I might make some tea and read a bit.” She turned her head toward the sitting room. “Oh no! Listen, gorgeous, you cannot sit in Sherlock’s chair! On the floor. That’s what the blanket’s for!”   
  
The cat curled its tail around its body and glared at John.   
  
“She’s going to kill me. Quite possibly literally. In a way no one will ever discover. And hide the body in a place where no one will ever find it. And it’ll all be on your conscience.”   
  
The cat rested its head on it paws and closed its eyes, its tail flicking.   
  
John sighed.   
  
\---   
  
Gunfire and screams.   
  
Blinding desert sun and scorpion stings.   
  
Boots tromping through dusty clouds.   
  
Sand mixed with blood.    
  
One cry. Then another.   
  
John scrambled in the darkness, and it wasn’t until she saw two silver eyes beyond the barrel of the Browning that she realised where she was.   
  
And what she was doing.   
  
“Oh, it’s you.”   
  
The cat mewled.   
  
“Sorry.” John quickly return the gun to its case in the drawer. “Listen, friend, you’ve got to go. Turns out Sherlock’s allergic. Go downstairs and you’re going to wish some cosmetic company had swooped you up for testing because her experiments are bloody,” John made an exploding noise and fell back into bed.   
  
The cat walked in a circle, tail swishing in the air.   
  
John sighed. “It’s your funeral. I can’t control the demons within, must less the ones without.”   
  
There was a single tremor as the cat alit on the bed. John rolled on her side and began to stroke its soft fur. “No collar.” She frowned. “Why wouldn’t someone want to claim a beautiful thing like you? Or are relationships ‘not your area’?” She smiled. “Just my luck to run into two of you.”   
  
The cat blinked.   
  
“Those eyes. She looks at me like that, too. Like I’m a fucking idiot.” She laid her head on the pillow and listened to the low purring.   
  
“I thought cats had golden eyes,” she mumbled before falling into dreamless sleep.   
  
\---   
  
A thud.   
  
A whimper.   
  
“Hey, friend, you’re not your usual graceful self. Oh Christ!” John grabbed a jumper and scooped up the cat. “What happened to you? I’m not vet, but let’s see what I can do.”   
  
\---   
  
“It looks a lot worse than it is. Hold still. This is going to sting.” John dabbed the ointment on a jagged scratch. “Did you take on something twice as big as you with no back-up? Or did you crawl into something that you couldn’t get out of? That’s what Sherlock does. All the time. Makes me worry about her. Constantly.”   
  
The cat looked away.   
  
“By the way do you know what happened last time you showed up? She plucked one of your black hairs off me and said ‘John, in your bed? How unhygienic!’” John mimicked. “The bloody nerve! Talk to me about hygiene when you stop putting thumbs and knobs and God knows what else in the refrigerator! Christ, I love her, but she can be a little trying at times.”   
  
The cat’s head twitched.   
  
“Hold still, I said. I didn’t think of it at the time, of course, what with me being an imbecile and all, but if she ever says anything again I’m going to tell her I’ve had a lot worse bedfellows that you, my dear. Three continents’ worth. And you suit me just fine. Today I bought one of those rolly things to get the hairs off my clothes so maybe she’ll dispense with the West End revival of Sneeze-a-lot whenever she sees me. There, all done. What say you convalesce with a bit of salmon that I saved from Angelo’s?”   
  
The cat butted its head under John’s chin and curled its tail so the tip caressed her cheek.   
  
“You’re welcome.”   
  
\---   
  
“Christ, I want to smoke and I don’t smoke.”   
  
Silver eyes blinked at the foot of the bed.   
  
John pushed herself up until she was sitting amongst pillows, back against the wall. “She was brilliant tonight. Absolutely brilliant. Handed half of Scotland Yard their arses on a platter, solved the case, and waltzed out of there like she owned the place. All in that damn coat and these black boots that went up to here,” John brushed her thigh atop the duvet. “She’s, well, she’s Sherlock.”   
  
John shook her head slowly, then shot a glance at the cat. “Yeah, I know that look. She gives me that look all the time. I’m pathetic, no? Pining after my flatmate.  If this were a magazine article or a romance novel, they’d tell me to confess my feelings and that she’d be feeling the same way and we’d live happily ever after. Fuck them,” John said, her lip curled in a snarl. “They don’t know Rosalind Violet Sherlock Holmes. Or me.”   
  
The cat crept across the bed toward John. Then it laid down on John’s chest. She petted its head, scratching behind its ears, and said softly, “How about I call you Rosy?”   
  
John felt a sand-papery lick on the tip of her finger.   
  
\---   
  
“Sherlock.”   
  
John groaned into the pillow. Her hips stilled and she turned her head, laughing.   
  
“It only goes to show how odd my life is these days, that masturbating with a cat on my back doesn’t seem so unusual.”   
  
She rested her head on her hands. Two paws kneaded the ridge of her shoulder. “You should’ve seen her, Rosy. She was, Christ, she was.” John squeezed the pillow between her legs. “Watch out,” she warned as she drew her vest over her head.   
  
Suddenly, the weight from John’s back was lifted, and she looked up into opalescent eyes.   
  
“What a naughty little voyeur! I’m half-tempted to think you like watching. Just my imagination, I know. What did Sherlock call me today? Rat-faced something-something. Do I look rat-faced to you?”   
  
A paw brushed John’s nose.   
  
“Yeah, well, even rats get to wank once in a while, no?” John winked at the cat and began to rut in earnest, grinding her hips against the mound beneath her. “Oh, God, Sherlock, love, love, love,” she chanted as she came.   
  
Then she flipped onto her back.   
  
“Rosy!” she squealed as the cat pounced on her chest. “I love you, you crazy cat.”   
  
\--- 

John bounced the tea bag in the mug like an impatient fisherman.   
  
“John.”   
  
“Hmm?”   
  
John looked up. Her mug tilted. Tea and tea bag decorated the floor and her bare feet.   
  
“I know that look,” she breathed.   
  
“Let me explain.”


	24. Pinball Wizard. (Sherlock/John PWP. Songfic.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** Pinball Wizard  
>  **Prompt:** Games  
>  **Rating:** Explicit  
>  **Content Notes:** Sherlock/John, first time, PWP, hand job, songfic ("Pinball Wizard" by The Who)  
>  **Summary:** Sherlock doesn't play the _violin_ when he's thinking.

Sherlock’s hand twisted over the head of John’s cock.

“Oh, God, yes,” moaned John. His hips bucked, pushing his cock through Sherlock’s tight fist. 

Four metal legs swayed and creaked with their movements. John leaned in and gripped Sherlock by the shoulders, closing the distance between their mouths. 

They kissed again and again as Sherlock’s hand moved up and down John’s shaft.

“Anybody ever tell you that you’ve got a supple wrist?” teased John with a breathy chuckle.

“No,” said Sherlock. “I’m told usually told my mouth looks quite fetching around one’s cock.” 

“Oh, God, yes, please,” begged John when Sherlock’s hand drifted lower to cup his balls. Then he cleared his throat and tried to weed out the strain in his voice. “I’ll have to take their word for it, on the other, I mean.”

“Not for long.”

“Jesus Christ.” John gripped the back of Sherlock’s head with two hands and slammed their lips together. Sherlock’s fondling grew rougher. 

“Crazy flipper fingers, eh?” John said when their lips parted.

“Just wait until they’re inside you.”

John bent his head to bite the ridge of Sherlock’s shoulder through the fabric of his shirt, stifling a whimper. 

“Like that?” whispered Sherlock. 

John heard the smirk in his tone, but was far, far too gone to care. “Love it,” he confessed. 

“Lucky for you I’m a wizard with balls.” 

John snorted, then he felt the pad of one finger seeking his frenulum. He lifted his hips higher off the glass and gripped Sherlock tighter. “Yeah, baby—“ His body froze. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. Just slipped out. I won’t—“

“It’s fine, John,” said Sherlock, brushing his lips across John’s temple. “Fine.” His hand went to the small of John’s back, like he was ushering him through a door. 

John melted at the touch. “Been thinking about this, well, not this,” he said, glancing down, “but you since I hobbled into the lab at Barts.” 

“Thirty-seven hours, fifty-two minutes and five seconds ago. But who’s counting?” said Sherlock a twitch of a soft smile on his lips.

“Yeah, God, that mouth,” said John, thickly, cradling Sherlock’s cheek in his hand so that he could brush his thumb across Sherlock’s plump bottom. “Gorgeous.” 

Sherlock gripped John’s cock anew, and John gasped. 

“Oh, wait, baby, slow down. Just a second. I have to tell you something, when we first met I didn’t hear you right. I thought you said you played the violin when you’re thinking.”

Sherlock laughed. “This is much better. No distractions.” He rocked their bodies together.

John looked down at the machine on which he was perched. “You’re going to teach me about this, yeah?”

“Sure.” Sherlock punctuated each phrase with a stroke of John’s cock, eliciting a throaty groan with every ministration. “Holes and saucers. Spinners and rollovers. Kickers and slingshots.”

“Christ, that mouth of yours makes everything sound filthy. Even pinball.”

“Ready for the slam tilt?” asked Sherlock, grinning as he sped up his pace.

“Oh, God, yes.”


	25. The Demi-Goblin & the Vampire (AU. Mystrade.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Title:** The Demi-Goblin  & the Vampire  
>  **Prompt:** Date  
>  **Rating:** Teen  
>  **Content Notes:** Mycroft/Lestrade; AU; Vampire Mycroft; Demi-Goblin!Lestrade; miscommunication; Lycan!John playing matchmaker; Vampire!Sherlock being a brat; set at the end of "A Study in Pink."  
>  **Summary:** No one said asking a hairy beast out on a date would be easy.  
>  **Author's Note:** Follows after [Into a bar](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6283942/chapters/15790864).

“Sherlock, that’s him. That’s the vampire I was talking to you about.”   
  
“I know exactly who that is.”   
  
A stranger approached, face pale and drawn. “So, another case cracked. How very public spirited, though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”   
  
Sherlock fell.   
  
John’s hand immediately went to the gun in the back of his trousers. The stranger raised two scarred hands in mock surrender. John’s head whipped around, scanning the environs. Then he heard a noise.   
  
Laughter.   
  
Sherlock was writhing, shaking with hysterics, on the ground.   
  
“Oh, this is childish,” huffed the stranger. He turned and strode stiffly towards a waiting car.   
  
“Sherlock, what’s going on?” asked John.   
  
“That was my brother Mycroft,” said Sherlock between giggles and snorts.    
  
“Not—“   
  
“Not what?”   
  
“Oh, a criminal mastermind?”    
  
“Close enough. He’d say he occupied a minor position in the British government, but in reality he  _ is  _ the British government when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.” Sherlock stopped laughing long enough to roll onto his hands and knees and stand up. “Did you see them? The burns?”   
  
“His hands?”    
Sherlock looked back at the dark car as it disappeared around the corner and nodded.    
  
“Silver burns from the kind of silver that goblins forge in thin chains for protection. Mycroft, after years of pining, finally summoned up the courage to say something—probably asking Lestrade out on a date—and the pompous arse got it so  _ wrong _ —doubtful that Lestrade would use such drastic tactics for a polite decline of invitation—that Lestrade believed he was asking to feed from him and, thus, tossed a chain on him. Oh, that’s going to smart and for a long time—his fat ego as well as his porcine hands! Further proof that he is  _ not _ the smarter one!”   
  
“So sibling rivalry? Childish feud?”   
  
“Mycroft calls it ‘concern.’ Always upset Mummy. Him—not me!”    
  
John smirked. “ _ Is _ Lestrade interested in your brother?”    
  
Sherlock scowled. “How could anyone be interested in Mycroft? So, Chinese?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  


* * *

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.”   
  
“Doctor Watson.” Lestrade glanced up from his desk. “You look…the human half of me says ‘well-rested’…the goblin half says…’shagged beyond all recognition.’”   
  
John laughed, then said, “It’s none of my business…”   
  
“Go.”   
  
“…but are you interested in Mycroft Holmes?”   
  
“No. Please leave, Doctor.”   
  
“Call me John.”   
  
“Get out, John!” Lestrade pointed to the door.   
  
“One last question:  before last night, did you have any interest in him?”   
  
“You were correct at the start: it  _ is  _ none of your business.”    
  
“He was asking you out on a date! Not to feed! Think about what he said, his exact words.”   
  
Lestrade’s eyes drifted to the wall.  Then he frowned.   
  
“He fancies you,” said John. “A lot.”   
  
Lestrade snorted. “Are we in primary school? Did he pass you a note?”   
  
“He doesn’t even know me—except to kidnap and threaten me. Oh, and read my medical file.”   
  
“Yeah, he did that to me, too, when I first met Sherlock.”   
  
“I don’t know you or him, but I am getting to know Sherlock. He’s got a couple awful bits about him, but some extraordinary ones, too. Maybe his brother does, too. And, well, look at me. If you have any interest in Mycroft at all, this could be you:  shagged beyond all recognition. Have a good day.”   
  
He disappeared through the doorway. 

* * *

“Is Mister Holmes…?”   
  
“Unavailable.”   
  
Lestrade nodded. He put his hand in his coat pocket, then took it out. “Would you tell him that Detective Inspector Lestrade stopped by?”   
  
A door opened. “Detective Inspector.”   
  
“Hi, uh, may I have a word?” Lestrade asked, wincing at his tone.    
  
Mycroft nodded and gestured for him to enter the office behind him. “Anthea, no disturbances.”    
  
“Yes, sir.”   
  


* * *

  
Lestrade produced a jar from his coat and set it on the desk. “Peace offering.”   
  
Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. “Unguent.”   
“I crafted it myself.” Lestrade glanced at Mycroft’s hands. “It will help. A lot.”   
  
“Thank you.”   
“I had a visit from Doctor Watson, uh, John, today. He said that you were asking me out on a date last night, not asking to feed from me. Is that true?”   
  
Mycroft  nodded. “Quite the failure for someone who makes his living wielding words.”   
  
“I’m sorry, Mycroft. I wasn’t listening closely enough. Or I might just be too simple to interpret the nuanced communication of a nightwalker.”   
  
“That last claim is nonsense. I’ve seen transcripts of your interrogations. You’re quite apt with all walks of life and undeath.”   
  
Lestrade leaned forward and took the jar in two hands. He unscrewed the lid. “It’s most effective if the creator applies it.” He looked up to see a trace of pink in Mycroft’s face. He smiled. “Well, now, there’s something you don’t see every day. A blushing vampire.”   
  
“And a civil servant,” added Mycroft, standing and removing his jacket, “reduced to shirtsleeves.  Quite the feat.”   
  
Mycroft jumped in his chair the moment Lestrade took his hand.   
  
Lestrade dabbed the thick cream on Mycroft’s wrist, coating a constellation of angry red welts. “Without this, it will burn badly for a long time. My grandmother made the chain, gave one to each of us kids. She was one of the best forgers the world has ever known and, like most goblins, fiercely protective of her own, even the halflings.”    
  
“Is that why you joined the police force? To protect others?”   
  
Lestrade nodded. “It’s my nature, as the scorpion says. See.”    
  
The marks began disappearing.   
  
“Much better,” Mycroft sighed. “Detective Inspector—“   
  
“Greg?”   
  
“Gregory?”   
  
“A bit like Gran, but okay.”   
  
Mycroft spoke crisply. “I have a small army of thralls available to meet my baser needs in a most efficient and effective manner known, but none are creatures whose companionship I genuinely enjoy. Last night, I was in fact, however ineffectively and inefficiently, merely requesting the pleasure of your company at a time and place convenient to us both.”   
  
Lestrade kept his eyes fixed on his hands as they tended to Mycroft’s. “I suppose the real reason that I threw that chain on you is that it’s damn near impossible for me to imagine someone like you wanting to be with someone like me out of anything other than feral necessity.”   
  
“Well, you’re wrong. Un-dead wrong.”   
  
Lestrade smiled. “Is that a vampire joke?”   
  
“Yes,” said Mycroft, cringing.   
  
Lestrade giggled.    
  
“Well, there’s something you don’t hear every day. A demi-goblin laughing.”   
  
“Thank you.”   
  
“Thank  _ you _ ,” countered Mycroft, spreading his fingers and turning his hands over. “It’s gone.”   
  
“I meant thank you for remembering the  _ demi- _ part.”   
  
“I also want you to know that I am a stout believer in hybrid vigour. Us pure blood are nothing but weak chins and whatever Sherlock is.” He screwed up his face in mock-disgust.   
  
Lestrade laughed again. Then he asked, “Dinner? Or do you even eat human food? I'm not too fond of goblin fare.”   
  
“I do. I am especially fond, perhaps Sherlock has intimated as much, of the final course.”   
  
“Dessert?”   
  
Mycroft nodded.    
  
“There’s a German bakery near my place. I can get a decent cup of coffee and you can get a slice of whatever you fancy.”    
  
Mycroft looked down at the file on his desk. A pink tinge returned to his cheeks.    
  
“Mycroft Holmes, you are a naughty vampire,” Lestrade teased.    
  
Mycroft looked up, one eyebrow raised and shrugged.    
  
“Well, I’m warning you: beneath these rumpled DI threads, I’m a hairy beast.  Might be a bit rough on skin as soft as yours.”   
  
Mycroft’s eyes turned to two pools of liquid obsidian. “If you think your words dissuasive, I assure they are the very opposite.”   
  
Lestrade gestured to Mycroft’s hands. “Is all your skin that cool and smooth?”   
  
Mycroft’s face fell. He nodded. “Always. Everywhere."   
  
“Fuck,” Lestrade breathed.    
  
Their eyes locked.    
  
“Gregory, if it’s not too forward…”   
  
“It’s not…”   
  
“That bakery you mentioned…”   
  
“…has some tasty breakfast pastries.” Lestrade glanced at Mycroft’s desk. “Your work?”   
  
Mycroft closed the open file on top of the desk. “Is happily done for the day.”   
  
“Excellent. Tomorrow’s my day off.”   
  
“Hurrah.”    
  
They both stood, and Lestrade grabbed the jar. “It’s good for all kind of things,” he explained with a wink.    
  
Mycroft bit his lip and busied himself with unrolling his shirtsleeves and fastening the cuffs. As he slipped his jacket on Lestrade said,   
  
“Wait, Mycroft, I’m a twice-divorced, grey-haired, paunchy, hirsute half-breed, are you sure you want to—“   
  
Mycroft put a finger to Lestrade’s lips. “I’m a mildly—some would say extremely—ridiculous, antisocial, centuries-old, workaholic nightwalker. Are _you_?”   
  
Lestrade smiled. “I am sure I want wrap my hairy legs around you tomorrow morning and keep you warm while I feed you bits of _franzbrötchen_ with my fingers.”    
  
“So you  _ do _ want to feed me,” said Mycroft with a grin. “Just as I want to leave you—what was the colourful phrase Doctor Watson used this afternoon when he visited? ‘Shagged beyond all recognition.’”   
  
Lestrade snorted. “That lycan may be the making of your brother…”   
  
“…or make him worse than ever.” Mycroft opened the door. “Shall we?”   
  
“Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last entry in this collection. Thank you to all my lovely readers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
